The Head Hunter's Client
by RoseThistleLady
Summary: Holmes and Watson race against time across a snow covered London trying to solve the mystery of a kidnapped woman – the mystery being that no-one believes her to be missing. No-one except Sherlock and his client that is! Our intrepid sleuths encounter a criminal blast from Sherlock's past and come face to face with a deadly opponent before a thaw brings an end to winter.


**The Head Hunter's Client**

**by**

**RoseThistleLady**

_**The author begs pardon of Messrs Conan Doyle, Gatiss, and Moffat **_

_**for this humble piece of flattery**_

**Chapter One**

Dr John Watson slid his key into the lock of the street door of 221B Baker Street, turned the cold metal in his right hand, pushed at the street door, and stepped across the threshold, firmly closing the door behind him. His palm flat against the dark wood he stood in the hallway and blew out a warm breath, visible in the cool air that had followed him in from the icy world outside. Dr Watson stomped some snow off of his boots on to the mat below the door.

London had been blanketed by snow during the last few days, with temperatures at, or below, freezing for the last few weeks. Winter had started early and was hanging on far too long; it would be March soon and there were no signs of a thaw starting. Spring would not dare to bare its head through the frozen landscape for many days yet; green shoots and tight buds hid beneath the hard ground.

For those of a romantic inclination, the pure white snow had granted the capital a picturesque and timeless beauty until the temperatures rose again, but for the majority, which seemed to include all newspaper editors, the snow did nothing but raise problems with travel, food supplies, and energy providers.

Mrs Hudson partially opened the front door of her bottom floor flat, her curious (some would say nosey) nature apparent by her shining dark eyes peering around the door frame, her nose leading her face like a mouse on the hunt for cheese.

"Oh John it's you."

"Morning Mrs Hudson."

Dr Watson deliberated whether to shrug off his coat here or upstairs, but still feeling the effects of London's current wintry blast he decided on remaining under layers for a few more moments. Watson's right hand was on the banisters, and one foot on the first step leading up to Sherlock's, and his former, flat when Mrs Hudson, edging around the door of her flat, quickly tip toed over to him, and arrested his progress.

"He's got one in."

John Watson replied with a tight lipped nod; his hand still firmly on the banisters, his forward momentum implied by his body leaning towards the stairs.

"It's a woman. I'm not sure but I think she's been here before."

"Right."

"They've been up there _ages_." Mrs Hudson's whispered tone, and her dramatic pronunciation of the last word, coupled with her slightly widened eyes, hinted at some sort of mystery.

Dr Watson managed to get to the second step before Mrs Hudson stepped forward a little closer, whilst dropping her voice like a conspirator.

"There have been a few noises."

"Noises?" said Watson.

"Mmm, there was this thumping and then a few…grunty type noises."

Watson could feel the waves of awkwardness coming off of his former landlady. Mrs Hudson wrung her hands gently, she glanced at Watson, then looked up to the ceiling, and then to the carpet. Her cheeks reddened. For someone so apparently worldly wise, John was often amused by her prudishness about basic human needs or expressions.

"Just now?" said John.

"No, a while back."

"Right." Watson managed to elevate himself one further step up the stairs, before Mrs Hudson's voice stopped his ascent again.

"I just thought you should know, you know, before you go up. Just in case."

Just in case of what thought Watson? There was hardly any chance of him walking in on his best friend in a compromising position. After all, this was Sherlock Holmes they were talking about. The man was a solitary as an oyster most of the time, and he couldn't think of anyone less likely to be caught displaying overt affection for another human being.

Even a robot might say hello unprompted these days, Sherlock wouldn't. The recent "incident" with Charles Augustus Magnussen's PA Janine, and Watson used the word "incident" rather than "relationship" after careful consideration, hadn't changed Watson's view of his friend in this regard. Sherlock had tricked Janine into thinking he cared for her, solely to gain access to her boss's office; and he'd seen nothing wrong with that. John was still aghast at the actions of his friend.

Sherlock was a man who made a practice of rarely displaying emotion, so any visual glimpse of a reflection of his inner feelings, a brief tight-lipped smile, a gleam in his eye signalling excitement, was as startling, and rare, as an unexpected clash of cymbals during sleep.

People who encountered Sherlock Holmes spoke of his serious nature, his brooding quality, and many had called him cold, indifferent, or just plain rude. His facial features often seemed to betray him as bored or miserable to the uninitiated or unobservant. Sherlock's icy blue gaze, sharp, watchful, and wise gave him the look of an owl, but unlike that bird he lacked its warmth, smoothness, or placidity. People liked owls.

Watson knew all this, in fact these had been his own observations early in his relationship with the great detective. Now after several years' friendship with Sherlock Holmes, Watson knew the great man more than most, but even he felt he didn't know Sherlock as well as people assumed he must. Watson wondered if he would ever truly know the man.

John trusted Holmes completely, and would risk much to keep him safe, yet at times John looked upon the best friend he had in this world as he would a stranger. But there were still a few things that Watson would put money on when it came to guessing the inner life of Sherlock Holmes, and one sure bet concerned women. He had no time for them. As he had once heard the detective remark, women were not really "his area".

Watson looked down benevolently at Mrs Hudson from his three foot high perch on the stairs and assured her he'd be careful entering the flat, which seemed to reassure her. She gave a little warm smile to her former tenant, reached up to pat his hand on the banister, and tripped back into her flat, closing her door gently behind her.

Watson took the rest of the stairs two steps at a time, as was his normal practice, a wry smile on his face. But at the top of the stairs, only inches from the familiar door that led into the living room of 221B Baker Street he stopped, his smile dropped and his brows knotted. What if there was something more than a client inside? Perhaps it wasn't a client, hadn't Mrs Hudson just said she'd visited before? Clients didn't visit twice. His hand reached out towards the door knob, and then at the last second, and for the first time in his friendship with the great detective, he knocked on the door.

"Why are you knocking?" Holmes's incredulous voice, in his ever familiar light baritone boomed through the door.

Feeling slightly ridiculous, Watson's wry smile returned to his face, and he grasped hold of the door knob, opening the door into the flat that was once his home.

As Watson's eyes caught sight of the tableaux before him, he stood stock still, his mouth slightly agape, an "Oh" formed on his lips but not uttered. His right hand gripped the doorknob.

Sherlock Holmes was seated on a wooden chair in the centre of the living room of the flat, naked but for his underwear, his eyes covered by a piece of black silk knotted at the back of his head, his torso secured to the chair by a length of black rope. A couple of feet in front of Sherlock a woman was draped width ways across Holmes's armchair, her long legs sheathed in sheer black hosiery and finished with high heeled, patent leather shoes, dangling over the wide leather arm rest. Watson saw dark hair, dark eyes, dark skirt suit, and cast a repeat glance at her legs before noting she had a silver fob watch in her left hand.

The woman didn't even glance at Watson as he stood in the doorway to the flat, his hand still gripping the door knob like it was a buoy to his sanity. She kept her eyes firmly focussed on Sherlock, not even bothering to glance at the fob watch in her hand. It was a look of such intensity that Watson got the impression she was trying to communicate with the half-naked, blindfolded detective with the power of her mind.

Watson glanced down the back of the wooden chair that the detective was sat on to see one secured silver bracelet of a pair of handcuffs wrapped around Sherlock's left wrist. In the fingertips of his right hand was a small piece of metal that Sherlock was using on the lock of the left cuff. There were also three or four other sets of cuffs, seemingly different types, one of which looked particularly ancient, lying around the base of the chair Sherlock was sitting on. Sherlock had obviously been at this game, whatever this game was, for some time. The muscles in Sherlock's arms were taut with the effort of freeing himself, his lips pulled tight across his teeth, his chin jutting out in concentration.

Watson instantly referenced back to Mrs Hudson's comment about the "thumps" and "grunty noises", saw the handcuffs scattered about the wooden floor under the chair, heard the effort Sherlock was making, and married words to actions – accepting of course the reason why his friend was virtually naked, trussed up like a chicken, and practising his escapology skills before this unknown woman.

Watson cleared his throat with a small cough.

"Erm, Sherlock."

"Yes, you are interrupting, and no this isn't anything that should redden Mrs Hudson's cheeks let alone yours."

Sherlock grimaced, grunted, and the metal handcuffs clattered to the floor.

"Time!"

"Fifty-five seconds. Rubbish. " The woman's clipped vowels bore a heavy trace of disappointment.

"Damn," Sherlock tugged at the rope fastenings and ripped the blindfold from his face, freeing himself of both and throwing them to the floor in disgust.

The woman slid her legs over the arm rest of Sherlock's chair and glided to her feet, tugging gently at her brilliant white shirt to straighten it. She stepped across to the comfy soft armchair opposite, the chair that Watson once claimed as his, and sank gracefully down into it, smoothly crossing her legs. An image of a cat flashed across the doctor's mind.

Sherlock thundered down the corridor to his bedroom and returned just as gruffly, but this time wearing his third best dressing gown. He launched himself at his fireside armchair, slapping his arms down simultaneously on to both of the black leather arm rests, and glared at the woman; who gave as much glare back.

"I've been busy," Sherlock stated archly.

"As with all things, practice makes….." the woman let the admonishment hang in the air, whilst dangling the watch from the fingertips of her left hand, then casually she tossed the fob watch at Sherlock, who caught it one handed with his right.

In the silence that followed, with both seated participants staring at each other, seemingly oblivious to the presence of a third person in the room, Watson decided he'd best make the first move. Knowing Sherlock as well as he did there was a good chance he would never get to the bottom of this interesting little drama if he didn't throw himself into the middle of it. Such had been this history of his time with Sherlock Holmes, throw yourself in at the deep end, see how far you can swim, and only worry about whether there were sharks in the water, if and when they appeared. Watson closed the living door behind him and finally took his hand off of the doorknob.

"Hello, John Watson," he said as he stepped forward towards the woman, his hand outstretched in greeting. Approaching her he guessed she was about thirty-five years old, striking but not pretty, and shapely, as her clothes were extremely well fitted to her frame and accentuated a couple of fine areas of quality. Though she wasn't moving Watson had the odd impression she exercised regularly.

"I'm in your chair," purred the woman as she slowly raised herself and moved to within a foot of Watson. Her dark brown eyes warmly appraised him; her tone was rich and silky with no trace of an accent that Watson could detect.

"Er, no, that's fine," stuttered Watson, breathing in her intoxicating scent and gazing into her warmly enticing eyes. He could see she used minimal, but well applied, make-up, a light dusting of rouge high on her cheekbone, black mascara but no colour on her eyelids, with a sheen of glossy dark pink lip tint. He waved a hand back towards the chair she had just vacated, "Please…."

"…and I'm late for another appointment. Would you mind?"

"Mind?" said Watson, unable to take his eyes away from hers.

"Her coat. On the couch." The words Sherlock barked out jarred Watson straight out of his reverie. Watson stepped over to retrieve the item in question and return it to the woman, who thinly smiled her thanks and poured herself into the garment, flicking up her collar. Sherlock rose from his chair. There was a brief moment when all three of them were standing looking at each other, wondering who would speak first, the only sound a shifting crunch in the pyramid of coal and wood burning furiously in the fireplace.

Then things happened quickly. The woman moved to head towards the closed living room door, Watson turned to move to head her off to open the door for her, side-stepping to the left to avoid the wooden chair in the centre of the room, and Sherlock leapt from his position, veering to the right, to pass both of them to reach the door first. Sherlock, his right hand on the doorknob, glared at Watson, the woman between the two men, all three inches apart and centimetres from the closed door. An impartial observer of the scene could have added jaunty music and called it a farce.

"Two sugars, thanks." With a flick of his head Sherlock sharply indicated in the direction of the kitchen to Watson.

Watson looked at Sherlock, pursed his lips, breathed out a "Nice to meet you" to the woman and walked stiff backed, with re-pursed lips, towards the kitchen. The door leading from the kitchen to the landing was open. Once Sherlock had opened the living room door, the conversation, though unseen, was audible from Watson's vantage point.

The good doctor flicked the switch to set the kettle boiling and took a careful couple of steps nearer to the open kitchen door. Watson could see from the kitchen table that Mrs Hudson had brought up tea earlier for Holmes and his guest; he looked down at the tea tray, two used cups in their saucers, a teapot, and a milk jug. Mrs Hudson's finest bone china Watson noted as he reached out to pick up the milk jug. Was it Holmes or his landlady trying to impress the visitor?

"You'll get what I need?" Watson heard more of a statement rather than a question in Sherlock's tone.

"I've got a lot on this week," said the woman, a challenge in her voice.

"You'll get it." A definite statement this time, Sherlock's deep tone was serious.

"Much good it'll do you," said the woman dismissively. Watson cocked an ear; he could have sworn her voice sounded different, less smooth.

"When?"

"Price?"

"You can have anything you want," suddenly Sherlock's tone was almost seductive.

"You couldn't give me what I want even if you could offer it," the woman purred back in response, a hint of humour in her tone.

Silence followed this last sentence, Watson didn't know whether they were staring at each other, kissing, or engaged in a breath holding competition, for despite straining his hearing Watson couldn't detect a sound coming from the hallway.

Watson looked down at the milk jug in his hand and an image of two large jungle cats fighting flashed through his mind. As Watson looked up again Sherlock was framed in the kitchen doorway, his eyes alert and shining but staring off into the middle distance. The sound of high heeled shoes stepping down the stairs echoed up to both men, followed a few seconds later by the sound of the street door slamming shut. The kettle boiled, and Watson briskly made two mugs of tea, turning to face Holmes with a mug in each hand.

Watson cast an unspoken question via his face to Sherlock.

"My accountant," said Sherlock perfunctorily.

"Your accountant?" said a disbelieving Watson.

"Mmm," said Sherlock as he reached for a mug of steaming tea and took it back into the living room. Holmes walked over to the large window behind his chair, and sipped at the boiling fluid as he looked out on to Baker Street below; like an eagle in his high eyrie surveying his domain. A taxi drove down the street heading west; it's shining blackness stark against the white of the recent snow fall that coated London.

Watson followed Holmes into the living room, deposited his mug of tea on the little side table nearest his armchair, finally peeled out of his coat, draped it over the back of his chair, and sat down in its welcoming softness. A pleasing reminder of the woman's scent greeted him as he did so.

"My accountant sits in an office, behind a desk, and we have conversations over the phone. He doesn't come round to my flat and tie me up half naked," said Watson.

The good doctor reached for his mug of tea and looked at the back of Sherlock's head and then to the right at the escapology kit discarded on the floor around the wooden chair.

"Sounds a bit boring," muttered Sherlock, taking another sip of tea.

Watson knew of old that trying to force Sherlock into revealing any useful information that he didn't want to give was pointless. Part drama queen, part secret agent, he explained things when he absolutely needed to or when the moment was ripe for him to take centre stage. Watson sipped at his tea and bided his time.

Watson cast his eyes around the living room, which normally existed in a state of semi-permanent untidiness, but Watson could see that even by Sherlock's standards the room was a total mess, books laying open on every available surface, the beige leather sofa resting against the back wall adorned with bullet holes, almost re-upholstered with newspapers, magazines, and maps. For the sake of Mrs Hudson's sanity Watson thought it might be best if he had a word with Sherlock about tidying up occasionally.

Sherlock seemed to take a perverse delight in teasing his friend, his only friend, but even the tricks that had once been so easy to employ to raise John Watson's conversational hackles required greater thought these days. Watson was learning. Sherlock furrowed his brow, realised Watson wasn't going to take the bait so easily today (new baby, lack of sleep, Sherlock estimated only two hours in REM mode, plus hunger), dumped his mug on the table by the window, leapt over the back of his chair, and took up his thinking pose, finger tips pointed into a steeple just under his nose, his lips lightly kissing his fingers.

"You're doing a terrible job of feigning indifference, which is only to be expected when you've only had two hours sleep and you haven't managed breakfast yet. Come John, you're a seething mass of questions, do ask one," said Sherlock, with a wry smile curling up the side of his face, "as long as it's not about the last time the flat was cleaned."

Watson had just opened his mouth, one of the many questions Sherlock referenced a moment ago half formed on his tongue, when one short blast of the doorbell from downstairs echoed up the stairs into their flat.

"Client. Let them in John, I'll put on some trousers. First impressions count don't you think?" said Sherlock.

**Chapter Two**

The middle aged woman with bobbed, chestnut brown hair shifted uneasily in her seat. She was wearing a dull grey shift dress with matching jacket, and sat awkwardly on the wooden chair recently vacated by the half-naked Holmes. Her darting eyes and small fidgety movements betrayed her obvious discomfort. She rubbed her hands together as if to encourage warmth to spread, but Watson knew it had nothing to do with the after effects of the freezing winter temperatures outside. The woman was nervous.

Watson couldn't decide which was making her more nervous, the distress of her situation in being forced to consult a detective, the fact that that same detective had been staring hard at her since she arrived in the shambolic living room of the flat, or perhaps thought Watson she was nervous because of the memory of having seen a selection of metal handcuffs and ropes scattered about the wooden floor, some of which were under the very chair she was now sitting on.

John looked at the uncomfortable visitor sitting on the chair reserved for clients and thought briefly about all the other people that had preceded her. The angry, the lovelorn, the bewildered, and the curious, they'd all brought their stories to Baker Street in the hope that the great detective could help them.

Sherlock Holmes was for many people the last resort, to others a saviour or a hero, but though he let them in and heard them out, his first and only interest in them was the case they were presenting to him. He cared nothing for their fears, their hopes, their dreams, their threats, or their offers of reward. Their lives meant nothing to him. Once their case was solved he wouldn't have raised an eyebrow in concern if they'd dropped down dead, gone mad, or run off to join a circus leaving their three children in the local supermarket. Be they an oil rich sheikh, a bin man from Dulwich, a bespectacled dignitary from the House of Lords, a housewife from Carmarthen, a tramp, or a Queen, he saw them all the same; only the puzzle they brought to him mattered. Everything else was an inconvenience and not worthy of his time.

In the time it took for the heavy set, but otherwise physically unremarkable woman in grey to reach the open doorway of the living room, remove her tailored black overcoat, struggle where to leave it amidst all the mess laying around, throw a small tight smile at Watson who took her coat and hung it on the back of the living room door, and walk over to the chair that Watson had politely offered her, Sherlock had coolly and swiftly seen a myriad of details no-one in London would have been able to. Excepting Sherlock's brother Mycroft of course.

Watson had always thought Sherlock universally unique until he'd met Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock's older brother was a bit taller, a bit more in love with the sound of his own voice than his sibling (if that was possible), and a little better dressed than his younger brother. Mycroft, as Sherlock was fond of remarking, ran the country from the back seat of a chauffeur driven Bentley, on his mobile phone. Though Sherlock ignored the need for human interaction he always threw himself into his cases with abandon, ignoring danger, using disguise, walking the streets in all weathers, seeking out the homeless; he got his hands dirty. Mycroft in contrast used other people's hands to get the job done, never his own.

How two such singularly damaged and outright geniuses had managed to emerge from the same, relatively normal, parents was a constant wonder to Watson. From a medical perspective John often thought about asking Sherlock and Mycroft whether they'd consider agree to be investigated by scientists, but he could pretty much guess the reply he'd get from either man, and he'd had enough of people shouting at him in the army.

Watson took his usual place in the slightly battered, patterned armchair across from Sherlock's smooth, leather seat. John felt the comforting warmth of the fire burning away in the grate, which was finally helping to take the edge off the bone chilling trip across London that he had taken that morning to Baker Street. The nerve endings in Watson's face tingled as his body temperature adjusted itself to suit the warmer environment.

Sherlock had many facets of his character and personality that would have made Watson gladly throw a punch at his best friend's face, in fact he'd often woken from dreaming thinking that he'd done that very thing, but Watson consoled himself with one thought – it would have been a hell of a lot harder to hold back the punch if the world had turned in a different direction and he'd ended up in a flat share with Mycroft Holmes. Watson looked over at Sherlock's profile and gave thanks for small mercies.

Sherlock's gaze had not wavered from the woman from the moment she'd arrived in the flat.

From the insignia on the ID badge (_the shield of the City of London_) attached to the lanyard hanging round her neck that she wrestled over her head too quickly before she sat down (_forgotten she had_ _been wearing it = left the office in a rush_), to the expensive but plain handbag (_businesswoman? civil_ _servant?_), with only one adornment hanging off of the zip (_a silver cat charm, expensive_); Sherlock saw it all.

Sherlock's eyes continued to probe. The open handbag contained a niche golf magazine rolled gently on the top of the contents, this was obviously not _her_ regular reading material so she'd bought it for someone else (_her boss = doctor or lawyer?_). The detective also saw a book, the title obscured except for one word, "death", on the cracked spine (_fan of mawkish true crime_).

Holmes's blue eyes flicked quickly in their sockets, the data pouring off of the woman in a torrent that Sherlock's ample brain read with assiduous practice. She dyed her hair, seven weeks ago judging by the centimetre long grey hair poking through all the brown hair at the nape of her neck; which he'd seen in a millisecond when she'd handed her coat to John. The woman's eyes twice flicked to her expensive wrist watch in the space of a minute (_demanding boss,_ _covering her absence from the office, no not covering, hiding her absence = problem at work_), and the couple of fine pale hairs on the inside of her right sleeve (_ginger or tabby?_). Sherlock saw it like a shopping list that made up a life.

The woman pulled at the hem of her dress, shifted her feet under the wooden chair, and played with her fingers as she let her eyes wander, looking around her at the fixtures, fittings, and general mess in the flat, then at her watch again, but hardly at all at the two men seated either side of her; one of whom continued to stare at her. Sherlock was squeezing the last few deductions out of his prospective client.

Manicured nails, thumb nail of the right hand slightly chipped (_nerves, stress = dilemma_). Wedding ring, thick gold band, currently an unpopular style, dull metal, slightly scratched (_married 20+ years_). Leather shoes, recently re-heeled, small feet (_5_) crossed under the chair, uncrossed, crossed again the same way, the right foot behind the left ankle, her body leaning more to the left as she moved her feet, tenderness in the right foot (_bunion?_).

The woman's clothes were of good quality, but Sherlock could see from an area of stretched and creased material at the stomach and chest area that the shift style dress was bearing the strain of the fifteen stone individual wearing it (_moderately expensive dress, only worn to impress, at least_ _two years old, yoyo dieter_).

At least two minutes had now passed, which to Sherlock was more than enough time required to assess the individual who sat before him. Watson was used to Sherlock's silent appraisal conditions but for the woman on the receiving end of the wordless visual testing, the one hundred and twenty seconds that elapsed caused her mounting concern.

"Look, I'm not sure why I'm here really; it may be nothing you see." The woman unclasped her hands, raised them palm upwards briefly in a gesture of bewilderment, and then clasped them again, fumbling them in her lap.

Watson knew that if Sherlock had taken this bait and instantly dismissed the woman from the room, she would have no doubt been immensely relieved and probably ran back down the stairs to the front door and freedom. However Sherlock had no plans to offer such relief to this particular client this morning.

"Don't be ridiculous. You've got a problem, you didn't go to the police about it, although you considered it judging by your right thumb nail, so it's obviously something interesting and inexplicable, and you're definitely not clever enough to work it out by yourself. You patently know, or have been told about, my success rate with inexplicable problems, so here you are."

Watson gave a short warning glance to Sherlock before he reached for his notebook and pen on the side table by his comfy chair. Watson turned his head to face the client and gave a tight lipped smile to the woman in the hope it might send her a spot of comfort. Pen poised over paper Watson wondered if this tale would end up gracing the pages of his online blog; his electronic history of his time working alongside the world's only consulting detective.

"He said you might be rude." The woman was obviously not happy with her first impression of Sherlock Holmes, trousers or no trousers, thought Watson.

"He?" said Watson.

"Good God, who did you go to first?" Sherlock's eyebrows shot up his pale forehead.

"Philip Anderson. A friend of mine knows someone in his gang, group, you know your fan club."

Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically.

"I thought only royalty had their food tested!" The great detective was seething.

Sherlock leapt to his feet with a dramatic sigh, walked to the window behind his black leather arm chair, looked out briefly on the street below, retrieved his mug of tea from the desk near the window where'd he'd left it, and then reversed the process and finally threw himself back into his armchair. His facial expression registered as "slightly thunderous" on Watson's scale of Sherlock's emotional reaction.

During this performance the nervous client watched him like a hawk with a look of some alarm as the detective moved about the room. As Sherlock leapt back into his armchair she let out a little gasp, and glanced nervously at Watson, looking for assurance.

Sherlock took a sip of his tea, cleared his throat, and turned his head to address his client, his eyes laser like in their intensity.

"Right, well let's start with forgetting everything _he_ may have told you, which would obviously be everything, and it goes without saying that you'll have no further contact with him. Clear? Judging by your schedule you'll need to get back to the City's financial district promptly, as you've only covered your absence from a very demanding boss by a time-limited errand, so let's just have the pertinent facts of your case. We certainly haven't got time for wittering on about anything else, like what possessed you to speak to the self-appointed leader of my frankly preposterous appreciation society, why your diet isn't working, or cats. Let's try and wrap this up before my tea gets cold. What happened?"

The woman sat staring at Holmes, her eyes glazed, her lips half open, and her cheeks reddening. Watson looked at her sturdy frame, her gimlet eyes, and the way she was knotting her fingers together in her hand, and was sure she was the type of woman to snap back when put on the back foot by someone being rude to her; but the gravity of her improbable situation had seemingly got the better of her nature and she closed her lips again, chewing them slightly with the effort of keeping her emotions at bay. After a short exhalation of breath through her nose she began her tale. The handwringing stopped, and she rested her hands, palms down on her lap. She looked straight at Sherlock Holmes.

"I think a woman's been kidnapped and someone else has been pretending to be her, but no-one believes me."

Watson knew of old that it was generally after the opening sentence of the people who came and sat in the "client's" chair that Sherlock decided whether the case was of any interest to him; whether he would allow them to carry on talking or would instantly dismiss them from the flat, often with a flea in their ear for wasting his precious time. One particular client had engaged Sherlock's wrath so entirely that once he'd been dismissed from 221B Baker Street he had to endure the further humiliation of having the great detective yelling abrasive comments at him through the open sash window of the first floor flat as he tried to escape down the street.

John looked at Sherlock as he slowly placed his mug of tea on the floor, and gently sank back into his chair, his hands coming together to form the "thinking pyramid" as Watson had come to call the almost prayer like action. The decision was made then; this particular client would be allowed to stay.

"Do go on," purred Sherlock, through his fingertips, a gleam of interest in his eye.

The woman took a deep breath, alert to the fact that the detective would probably cut her off quite sharply at any point should she start rambling. She had rehearsed what she was about to say so many times, last night before bed as she had been choosing the correct outfit to wear, and again in the taxi on the way to Baker Street, but never under so much pressure.

"My name is Hannah Croft. I'm the HR Manager in a small legal firm in the City, Carter &amp; Wright. I recently appointed a woman called Sarah Beddington as a PA to one of the Directors. We used a trusted recruitment firm to send us applicants with potential, and I shortlisted and interviewed four of them a few weeks ago. Miss Beddington was by far the best candidate on paper, and in person she was…well, it was one of the best interviews I'd ever been part of. I was so impressed I told her she had the job before she left my office. She was due to start work on Monday, this week, at 09.00am, but never turned up. I tried her mobile and landline, I left several messages, but there was no reply. I even contacted the recruitment firm that had sent her to me, they hadn't heard from her either. I nearly called the police I was so worried."

"Why?" said Watson.

Sherlock pulled his lips into a quick tight smile. John was so human, thinking of the emotional side of the case already, trying to gauge why the client's feelings had prompted her to try to call the police so soon. Sherlock would have asked exactly the same question, but for an entirely different reason, and with a vastly different tone. Sherlock's "Why" would have been one of confusion. Why would this client be so concerned about someone they hardly knew? Watson seemed to sense the reason behind Sherlock's smile, and carried on the questioning.

"I mean, you barely knew this Sarah Beddington, what would make you think something was wrong? She might have been ill or just decided the job wasn't for her."

"No, that's just it you see, she'd been so keen, I'd never had anyone be so pro-active and engaged in an interview before, she'd done her homework about the company, its Directors, its current legal ranking, I mean she knew more than me and I've worked there for ten years. She had all the right answers to my questions. She was so grateful when I'd said she could have the job. It meant the world to her."

"And of course she got on with you like a house on fire. Similar interests," said Sherlock.

"How did you guess that?" the woman's eyebrows raised a little in surprise.

"I didn't _guess_." The stress on the word signalled Sherlock's displeasure, he'd almost spat out the word. Sherlock rolled a hand at the woman, indicating she was to carry on.

Watson continued to make notes as the woman unfolded her tale.

"I decided to wait until the next day before I did anything. There was a chance she'd got the start date wrong, or perhaps she was ill like you said. Monday lunchtime arrived and so did Sarah Beddington. Except it wasn't the Sarah Beddington I'd interviewed. She looked similar, same hair colour, size, height, even the handbag was the same, the same as mine actually, but it wasn't her. She had all the right documentation on her, passport, drivers licence; she showed me bank cards all in the name Sarah Beddington. She explained she'd forgotten to mention she had a hospital appointment Monday morning. She said she'd left a message with Reception for me. Her mobile had been off in the hospital, but she showed me her phone so I could see the text messages I'd sent. I went to Reception and sure enough there was a post it note message left there for me that hadn't been delivered. I then went and phoned the recruitment firm, and asked them if they had a photo on file of the girl they'd sent to me for the interview a few weeks ago, which they emailed over. It was a photo of the woman who had turned up to work, not the woman I had interviewed."

The woman paused for a breath and briefly glanced at her hands resting calmly in her lap, before she looked up at the detective and then Watson.

"I thought I was going mad. I was making a bit of a fuss by this point; I couldn't find anyone that could remember seeing the real Sarah Beddington when she came for her interview. It had been late in the afternoon when she'd arrived and several people had already left for the day. I seemed to be the only one that spoke to her, and it was just the two of us in the interview. This woman in my office was to all intents and purposes who she said she was. I was told to calm down, put her to work, I'd obviously made a mistake, and I was to forget the whole thing."

"But you didn't," this time it was Watson making the deductions. Sherlock curled another small, short smile up his left cheek.

"I couldn't shake this nagging fear that something was terribly wrong. Tuesday evening after work, I don't know what possessed me, but I went to the home address that the real Sarah Beddington had given on her CV, and had a peek through her windows. I saw some photos on the shelf inside, they were photos of this fake Sarah Beddington, and then I caught a glimpse of her feeding Pierre."

"Pierre?" said Watson slightly mystified by the reference.

"Her cat. Did she show you a photo in the interview?" said Sherlock.

"Yes, how…?" the woman breathed out the word in amazement.

Watson sympathised with the woman, he'd been in a similar situation a few years back as Sherlock had read his life story through one glance at the former soldier's mobile phone.

"And then you went to Anderson for advice." Sherlock gritted his teeth and gripped the arm rests of his chair. Every time the man's name was mentioned the woman could see it was having a negative effect on the great detective.

"Yes."

"Stupid."

"Sherlock," the gentle warning from Watson had the desired effect.

"I meant, continue," Sherlock's face was inscrutable. Watson read it as "mildly sarcastic" on his grading scale of the great detective's exterior expressions.

The woman pursed her lips in mock defiance, and she shot Sherlock a dagger filled glance, but was too far in to her story now to stop.

"Ander… (_Holmes sighed loudly_)…_He_ told me to keep an eye on her to see if she did anything out of the ordinary, and to see you straight away if she did. But that's why I'm not sure if I should be here."

"Are you saying she didn't do anything out of the ordinary?" said Watson, his pen poised above his notepad.

"Yes and no. She came to work on Tuesday and Wednesday did a really good job, made something of an impression on several of the staff, and then late Wednesday afternoon I got back to my desk after a meeting and read an email from her saying she was really sorry but there had been a family emergency and she had to go away for a few days. I called her mobile several times, but no reply. I phoned the recruitment firm again and they'd also received an email from her saying she'd had to urgently travel up north due to family problems. So, this morning I made up an excuse to leave the office for an hour and came here to see if you could help."

Sherlock slowly raised himself from his armchair, scooping up his mug as he stood; he walked over to the table near his chair, raised the mug as if to drink, but then halted the action halfway to his lips. He then deposited the mug on the table in a distracted fashion, dislodging some papers that fell to the floor. Holmes stood with his back to the client, but in profile to Watson, staring into the middle distance.

"So the cuckoo has fled," muttered Holmes, as his thinking pyramid made another appearance.

"But what's happened to the real Sarah Beddington, that's what I'm worried about. Is she dead in a ditch somewhere, or chained to a wall in a basement?" the woman seemed really concerned about the missing woman, and the handwringing made a re-appearance as her voice became a little shrill. Her face flicked from the back of Holmes's head to Watson's face and back again.

"You _really_ need to lay off the true crime novels Mrs Croft," said Holmes' with a look of slight disgust on his face, as he turned to face the client.

"How do you know I…?"

"Watson, get the details. Addresses for the recruitment firm, Sarah Beddington's flat, oh and any important events at Carter &amp; Wright in the last six months."

And with that sentence uttered Sherlock strode across the room, through the kitchen, and down the corridor towards his bedroom where a succession of opening and slamming of drawers and cupboards took place. When he emerged less than a minute later he was wearing his long overcoat, black leather gloves, his blue scarf knotted at his neck, and was carrying a small sports holdall. Since when did Sherlock need a sports bag thought Watson? In fact, since when did he need a bag of any kind?

Sherlock strode back along the corridor, but instead of returning to the living room he turned right at the open kitchen door and headed off down the stairs. The sound of the street door slamming shut signalled that Sherlock Holmes had left the building.

"Where's he going? What about the poor missing woman?!" said the woman with justifiable umbrage.

"Don't worry, we're taking the case. Can I get those details off of you?" said Watson as he sat poised with his pen at the ready.

As the flustered and slightly annoyed woman began to give Watson the details Sherlock had requested, they both heard Sherlock's voice outside yelling to attract an approaching taxi on the street below. Not for the first time in his friendship with the great detective John Watson wished that just once he'd like it to be his turn to be enigmatic and flounce out on a client.

**Chapter Three**

When Sherlock Holmes returned to 221B Baker Street later that Thursday afternoon it was to a cold and empty house. It was just as well the building was empty considering what Sherlock was dressed in; if both Mrs Hudson and John Watson had seen the normally well-dressed detective in dirty trainers, tight black athletic leggings, baggy knee length shorts, a black hooded zipped top, blue scarf, and a baseball cap, carrying a dirty brown cloth satchel covered in pen marks strung diagonally across his torso, he would have undoubtedly have been barracked by a succession of fatuous, but to them hilarious, comments. Sherlock had a sense of humour, albeit dry and sardonic, but he had a low threshold for common ridicule and mockery, especially when it was aimed at him.

Sherlock stood in the hallway, looped the satchel's strap over his head, dropped the bag to the floor, and removed the grey woollen fingerless gloves that completed his mismatched ensemble, slipping them in to the pocket of his khaki chino shorts. He then pulled out the headphones from his ears and let both plastic wires dangle down the front of his hooded top. A faint tinny series of notes emanated from the earpieces; _The Goldberg Variations_ by Bach. Not the average tune a bicycle courier would listen to; for despite the lack of a bike in the vicinity, that was what Sherlock resembled at first glance.

Sherlock bent at the neck inclining his head towards his right and then left shoulder, and tensed his back muscles by pushing his chest out. It had been a while since Sherlock had exerted himself on a case, and he felt his body reminding him of this fact. There had been the odd spot of running or dodging the occasional bullet, but in general his workload was conducted sitting in chairs or in taxis. Sherlock patted his stomach and mentally assured himself that he wouldn't get obsessed with his weight like his brother Mycroft. His elder sibling had taken to exercising at an alarmingly regular rate and was a slave to his diet. Sherlock dipped a hand into the right pocket of his shorts and retrieved his mobile phone. Unfastening the wire connection to his earphones his nimble fingers tapped out a single text to a specific contact group and pressed "Send";

"Reward for lost luggage. No 2. Kings Cross SH"

There was a serious and professional reason behind Sherlock's need to dress in such an odd outfit, but the effect was entirely comical to look at. Disguise had always been part of Sherlock's expansive repertoire of detective skills. That afternoon Sherlock had needed to walk, or rather cycle, amongst people in plain sight, in a busy area of London, but not be observed, so he had decided to employ one of these many disguises.

The trick to carrying off a good disguise was not necessarily in the cunning of the correct clothing, but in mastering the correct pretence that you belonged somewhere you didn't, and in pretending you _were_ what you plainly _were not_. Ordinary people missed a lot by not truly seeing what was happening in front of their eyes, through indifference or stupidity. It was a wonder the police ever relied on the validity of any witness statement, but then again, in Sherlock's opinion the police were no better at observation than the general public, despite their greater opportunity to practice.

By using the right disguise, and acting appropriately, you would never stick out from any crowd. Though recent notoriety had brought Sherlock, with his funny hat and his long coat, to the attention of the public at large, Holmes was such an expert in disguise that even an ardent fan would have never seen the great detective standing next to them on the street. Of course there was always the possibility, as John's wife Mary was fond of pointing out, that not everyone in London knew who Sherlock Holmes was, but the great man dismissed this assertion as particularly ill-informed.

Sherlock flew up the stairs two or three at a time and rummaged through the mess in the flat until he'd found a fifty pound note, a pen, and a small envelope. He wrote a few words on the outside of the envelope, rammed the money inside it, threw the pen on the desk nearest his armchair, and then stood stock still, pursing his lips, his eyes roaming around in their sockets; thinking through a problem.

"Mrs Hudson!" he bellowed. Silence greeted his call.

Holmes's landlady had obviously disappeared out on one of her many shopping expeditions or perhaps on one of her numerous trips to see Mr Chatterjee in the café next door. Sherlock found it inexplicable that Mrs Hudson was still barking up that tree when she knew the café owner was married, to at least two women on two separate continents.

Holmes considered an impenetrable. Why do people do that, keep trying to make connections with other humans when there was no point, why waste their time and their energies? Time-wasting was anathema to Sherlock. There was too much to learn about the world, to experience, to attempt, and so little time in a mortal human life span to fit it all in. It chilled him to think he might never be fully satisfied with his life's experience before his time on this planet ended.

Sherlock cast a quick glance over to the mantelpiece above the now cold fireplace, and his eyes caught sight of the solution to his problem. Who needed people anyway? Sherlock could solve everything by himself. It was easier being alone.

Dr John Watson was hardly ever alone these days, and he liked it that way. He'd been estranged from his sister for years; he'd only made a handful of friends at medical school and in the army, and had purposely distanced himself from anyone during his convalescence after his violent injury whilst on active service. At the time he first met Sherlock Holmes he had been at a borderline depressive, and lonely, crossroads in his life.

Since that fateful meeting in the laboratory at Barts Hospital his life had been transformed. Through living and working with Sherlock, John had learned to be a fully connected human being again, willing to laugh, make friends, and open his heart. The irony of the journey this "conversion to life" had taken, whilst simultaneously befriending an unsociable and coldly analytical man indifferent to most facets of humanity, was not lost on John Watson.

Dr Watson was taking an afternoon locum surgery session at the GP practice where he intermittently worked, not far from the flat he and Mary rented in North London. Intermittent being the operative word, as with Sherlock Holmes as a friend, he could be away from the surgery for days or weeks on end, or conversely working at it for days on end, such was the itinerant lifestyle he now led as half of a consulting detective service. Cases came in a flurry, or not at all for several days, making his home life with Mary and the baby also subject to erratic periods of absence or attendance; which he regretted deeply. But Mary intimately knew about the thrill of the chase led by Sherlock Holmes as well as he did, having been involved in a few of Sherlock's cases herself, and she had the good grace not to moan too much when he came home at two in the morning, or not at all, or had to fly out of the house at a moment's notice.

As Dr Watson wrote out the third prescription for antibiotics that afternoon his mind wandered back to the case of the missing PA he'd heard only that morning, and much like the woman who had told it, wondered what had happened to the "real" Sarah Beddington.

Watson also continued to flash back to the image of Sherlock carrying a sports bag with some interest. Had he joined a gym? Watson knew Mycroft was always watching his weight, and with the competitive way the brothers were with each other, perhaps Sherlock was just trying to outmatch his elder sibling. The thought captured Watson's imagination and he toyed with the imagery of his best friend pumping iron. However, an unintended smile at the thought of Sherlock on a rowing machine, in the middle of a patient's description of a delicate injury, caused some consternation to the aforementioned patient and forced Dr Watson to cease his reverie and concentrate his full attention on the distress of the man with suspected penile sprain sitting in his surgery.

An hour had passed since Sherlock returned to Baker Street. In that time he'd showered and changed clothing, shouted for Mrs Hudson again, and turned on the television to one of the 24hour news channels but had instantly muted the sound. When Mrs Hudson appeared Sherlock had already forgotten he'd called her, and rudely dismissed her. Holmes then poured over a variety of websites on his several laptops and his mobile phone, swallowing information from them like a hungry whale; brain open to the waves of data he swam through, much like the sea creature's open-mouthed approach to scooping up krill.

Sherlock was a bundle of energy, his face expressive, his fingers flying across the keyboards of the laptops he'd scattered around the room, but now he was more sombrely attired in his regulation black suit, jacket with a single button, crisp white shirt, and soft leather black shoes. Holmes paced the flat and softly muttered to himself, lost in his thoughts, so much so that he completely ignored Mrs Hudson when she kindly brought him up a cup of tea; which caused the landlady to loudly mutter to herself about ingratitude as she thumped back down the stairs to her flat on the ground floor of 221 Baker Street.

Sherlock's eyes briefly flickered to the TV and the images of protestors in Central London, waving placards, screaming soundlessly through a muted television screen. Similar scenes had been broadcast for the past two days. The "Breaking News" subtitles spoke of a pending conference of oil rich nations, environmental issues, and heavy police presence on the streets of London.

Sherlock doubted if the police could contain the situation appropriately. Gridlocked streets across London would affect Sherlock's ability to get a taxi at short notice or travel quickly; and his cases often depended on his ability to do both. Sherlock fired off a text to Inspector Lestrade to this effect, and received a swift and caustic response from the busy detective at Scotland Yard. Holmes deduced Lestrade had unusually high stress levels, and wondered if there was something more than protestors and traffic on his mind. Perhaps his wife had gone off with the PE teacher again?

Holmes shut off this train of thought, sighed, slipped his mobile in his inside jacket pocket, and sat down in his armchair. Now that Sherlock had a case inflaming his interest he wanted to pronounce the game as "on". But pronouncing out loud to an empty flat, with only the skull residing on the mantelpiece over the fireplace as company, lacked the audience participation the action warranted in Sherlock's mind. Even though the audience he had in mind constituted the sum total of one – John Watson.

Before John had appeared in the detective's life, Holmes had mostly worked alone with occasional input from his brother Mycroft, or his colleague at Bart's Hospital Molly Hooper, even Lestrade had done his best to assist Sherlock on the odd occasion; and of course the Accountant had always proved useful. Except in one instance, Sherlock had no hope that any of them would become his permanent assistant; their generally negative or frustrated reactions to his style of working had quite correctly led him to this conclusion.

Since his arrival at 221B Baker Street, Watson had been involved in nearly all of the varied cases that came to Sherlock's attention, and Holmes had quickly deduced that due to John's skills and life experience, and his considerable tolerance level, that the arrangement would be very beneficial to maintain – hence Sherlock had made an conscious effort with Watson where he hadn't with all but one of his previous assistants.

Since Mary and the baby had come into Watson's life Sherlock had taken to working a few cases solo. However there were still some cases where John's abilities were very useful and Sherlock had no qualms about pulling Watson away from his family at a moment's notice when the need arose.

Sherlock turned his face away from the TV screen, and brought his hands together in prayer, the tips of his fingers resting just under his nose. Via his peripheral vision he saw the sheet of John's notepad paper, bearing the details he'd asked for from the client that morning, propped up on the mantelpiece below the large mirror. Sherlock leapt up and stood before the fireplace, glanced at the notepaper, and then looked at his reflection in the mirror.

Sherlock dipped a hand into his inside jacket pocket and retrieved his mobile phone, typed in the following message "Meet me at Beddington's flat SH" and clicked "Send".

Watson received Sherlock's text with three patients yet to see, and no colleague to farm them off on to. Maintaining his professional standards, but perhaps cutting his bedside manner far too short, Dr Watson whistled through them with a speed and brusqueness Sherlock would have applauded.

John quickly locked the door to his room, tugging on his thick black jacket as he gathered speed down the corridor, and told a startled Receptionist that he had an urgent house call to make and he'd have to leave early. Watson told her to refer anyone else who dropped in to an NHS helpline or to make them an appointment with one of the other GPs working there the following day, and before she could brook any argument to this arrangement, he was steaming towards the exit of the clinic.

"Hold on. You don't do house calls!" yelled the young Receptionist as Watson disappeared through the street door.

Watson jogged to the road junction at the end of the street, weaving through the start of the Thursday night commuter rush. With their heads down and swathed in layers, puffing out bursts of warm air into the freezing temperatures, the crowds of commuters resembled a collection of little steam trains careering through the frosty city streets.

Watson flagged down the first taxi that was free, although he had to wait for several taxis to pass for this to happen. John could feel the pull of the case already and impatiently scanned the streets feeding in to the junction looking for an orange light to hail. Once he was ensconced in the back of a cab and on route to Sarah Beddington's flat, he sent a text to Mary explaining he was working a case with Sherlock and might be late. His wife texted back almost immediately:

"Might be? Ha ha. I might leave you a sandwich in the fridge x".

Watson smiled at the reply and put his phone back in his jacket pocket. All was right with the world. The game was on.

Sarah Beddington lived in a modestly proportioned ground floor flat in North London, in a three storey building set back from the road, fronted by a small gravel area currently frosted with snow and ice reserved for off road parking. Watson estimated the area was moderately affluent and that the rent on the flat would take a sizeable portion out of a PAs monthly wage. Perhaps, like Sherlock, she had a special arrangement with the landlord. Although, unlike Sherlock, Watson was willing to bet that Sarah Beddington's arrangement hadn't involved helping to secure the murder conviction of her landlady's husband.

Trees and dense high bushes, topped with snow, bordered the gravel area in front of the building, and from what Watson could see during an initial cursory glance at the property, down both sides of the building at the rear as well. Though it was not far after the end of the school run, and just as the commuter rush was starting, and though the flat was situated by a busy road, it was relatively quiet in this area of London on this early Thursday evening. The prolonged spell of cold weather was definitely having an effect on unnecessary travelling.

Watson impatiently glanced at his watch, and crunched towards the edge of the gravel area outside the house, looking both ways up the dark street for signs of Sherlock approaching. The property was relatively hidden from the neighbours on both sides by the tall foliage, the nearest streetlamp cast only a faint glow on the property, and the freezing weather was keeping most people indoors, so Watson wasn't in immediate danger of being questioned by a nosey local resident, but John was hoping his friend would arrive soon just in case a passing community support patrol might stop to question him. That, and it was freezing standing outside. Where the hell was Sherlock Holmes?

John pounded his gloved hands together and stamped the snowy ground as he walked back towards the front door to the house, being careful to keep close to the dark shadow cast by the tall bushes on the left side of the property, hoping to keep his presence under as much cover as possible. Watson decided he'd wait for a few more minutes before he attempted to contact Sherlock on his mobile.

Watson was still ruing the speedy, though correct, advice he'd given to a very timid and nervous sixty three year old woman with piles, who had been the last of the three patients Watson had whisked through in order to make this appointment with Sherlock. Watson closed his eyes, screwed his lips into a tight line and flashed back to the cursory glance he'd taken of the patient's backside, before ripping off his latex gloves, scribbling a prescription for pile cream, asking her to whip her drawers back on, and hustling her out of the office to make a follow up appointment with the Receptionist. He'd probably not be winning any awards for good bedside manner this week. Watson made a mental note to phone the Receptionist to check on the poor woman.

Watson suddenly recalled one of the teachers he'd had during his first year at medical school, and the comment he'd made at nearly every session that "He who would heal others must himself be whole." If only Watson's patients could have seen or experienced a smattering of the adventures that he had had with Sherlock Holmes, they'd be questioning their GPs ability to perform any professional services with the gravity, responsibility, and total dedication it demanded.

Though Watson had been pictured alongside Holmes several times, and had been written about in newspapers, he didn't seem to get much reaction from his patients to his erstwhile celebrity; if questions were ever asked they were often more about Sherlock than himself anyway.

John knew he was a good trauma doctor, and had been a half decent soldier, but he doubted very much whether he'd win any plaudits for his work as a general practitioner in the suburbs of London. In between seeing his patients, and occasionally when he was actually with a patient, Watson's mind would often wander back to Baker Street, wondering when the next call or text from Sherlock Holmes would arrive, sending him on a race into danger once again. Since his marriage those calls had not been as frequent as they once were and Watson wondered if Holmes was deliberately reducing them in light of the change in his circumstances. Watson made another mental note to ask his friend about this, no matter how awkward the conversation might be. It wouldn't be the first time John had to tackle a difficult subject with Sherlock.

Watson was forthright in his remarks to Sherlock about the detective's occasional drug use, although Dr John Watson knew deep down that his own "addiction", to danger, warranted a similar lecture. But whilst Sherlock Holmes took all of Watson's caring cautions about his friend's physical and mental health largely without complaint, Sherlock had the good grace not to repay the favour by lecturing Watson on his own failings. Mycroft's acerbic comments directed at his younger brother's mental and physical weaknesses were however met with swift and equally biting remarks from Sherlock.

Perhaps the control that Sherlock had displayed so far would recede now that Watson was married and a father. Perhaps it was time Watson needed to be weaned from his addiction to dangerous situations, and that was why Sherlock was working more cases on his own. But how could Watson ever be weaned of his addiction when the pull of the game was so strong, when a call from Sherlock would have him reaching for his wallet, coat and keys without a care to anything, or anyone?

For another minute, Watson paced about outside the property, shucking snow off his boots and pounding his gloved hands together for warmth. He was about to start lighting the touch paper of his incendiary thoughts about Sherlock's timekeeping, letting his guilt about rushing his patients so he could tear across London on a whim, whip him into a succession of explosive thoughts aimed at Sherlock's head, when Watson heard a trilling noise from his phone. At last, some news from Sherlock he thought.

John's stripped off one glove, reached for his phone, and read another message from his wife.

"BTW I think Sherlock stole your bike x"

Watson sighed heavily. His warm breath hung in the freezing air like a little cloud.

"What are you doing out here, it's freezing," said Sherlock, suddenly behind Watson, who started violently and blew out another warm cloud of air.

"Jesus!"

Watson could see the front door to Sarah Beddington's flat ajar. Sherlock had been inside all along! John stared incredulously at the detective, holding up his mobile to Sherlock as if to say "you could have texted", but Holmes only threw a confused expression back at his friend.

Sherlock spun on his heel and led the way into Sarah Beddington's flat.

Watson and Holmes were in Sarah Beddington's flat for no more than ten minutes, but in that time the great detective made at least twelve deductions to Watson's two. John realised that if something had happened to Sarah Beddington, it didn't occur inside the flat, the place was neat, tidy and well maintained with no sign of violence having occurred. There was no pool of blood, no smashed glass, and no dead body awaiting their arrival.

Watson also deduced that from the expression on his friend's face Sherlock would definitely not be consulting the woman who lived here on home improvements; that was if she was ever seen again. Sherlock flicked on the living room light and immediately cast a withering glance at a scatter cushion bearing the image of a kitten wearing a tiara which nestled on an armchair to their left as they entered the room. Sherlock walked over to the window in the living room, looking out on to the snowy gravel forecourt beyond, his quick eyes coasting across the photo frames and trinkets displayed on the window ledge.

"So what do you think happened to her? Doesn't look like there was a struggle in here," said Watson.

As they walked about the flat they could see that the rooms, albeit cluttered with scatter cushions, pictures and ornaments, the wallpaper and paint theme florid and bright, the textures soft and draping, appeared undisturbed and clean. The bed was made, there was no post mounting up on the mat behind the door, and the air was scented with a floral note.

Watson followed Holmes through each of the rooms, turning lights on and off as they investigated and then left each area. John watched as the detective became curious at various points, touching or sniffing certain items, opening cupboards and drawers, and then dismissively snorting at an item that offended him; which included any item bearing a cat motif. The owner of the flat was clearly a fan of cats, much to Sherlock's obvious disgust.

In Sarah's bedroom Holmes lay flat on the floor by the side of her bed, before whisking out his magnifying glass to peer at the carpet, the bedside table, and the inside of her wardrobe. His eyes took in the pictures in the photo frames and the spines of the books on a nearby shelf.

John watched as Sherlock eagerly scanned the clothing hanging up, gently running his fingers along the tips of the hangers, crouching down to look at the shoes at the bottom of the wardrobe, some in boxes, others on display, lined up in their pairs. Sherlock appeared to be lingering by the open wardrobe.

"Found something?" said Watson.

"Not enough shoes," muttered Sherlock. He clicked his magnifying glass shut and stood up, his eyes alert and occupied.

Holmes and Watson left the bedroom and walked through to the back of the flat, the kitchen, and Holmes stood looking at the back door, clear glass on the top half and white plastic with a cat flap on the bottom half. The door lead out to the garden beyond, the recent snowfall glistening in the light shadow cast from the security light attached to the back of the house next door. Watson switched on the overhead light in the kitchen. To the left of the back door were two bowls, one bowl containing water, the other a substantial portion of cat food.

Sherlock still hadn't answered Watson's initial question about what had happened to the missing woman. This wasn't an unusual occurrence, especially when Sherlock's mind was entirely focussed on an investigation. If it was a question worth answering, Sherlock would get around to it sooner or later. On one occasion three days had passed before Sherlock had replied to Watson.

Watson's stomach gurgled audibly in the quiet flat. It had been hours since he'd rammed a sandwich down his throat just before he'd started his locum GP clinic.

"Any chance we can drop by a takeaway after this?"

Sherlock sighed audibly.

"I know you can manage on air and clues for days on end, but some of us have a normal human digestive system."

"Some of us can do two things at once," said Sherlock rather archly as he opened the fridge door, decorated with magnets and a shopping list, and peered inside. He cocked his head to one side, his interest peaked by something. Sherlock walked over to the bin and the recycle box just inside the back door, and peered inside both.

"What?"

"I ate whilst working. I checked out the City legal firm earlier, had a pub lunch," Sherlock opened and closed a couple more cupboards before turning to face Watson.

"So you did steal my bike," said Watson, remembering his wife's text. "Why? Hold on, what were you doing in a pub?"

"It's a bit hard pretending to be a cycle courier without a bike," said Sherlock, patting Watson on the shoulder.

Watson's stunned look had the desired effect on Sherlock. Holmes walked away from John as a sly grin slowly spread across his face.

Sherlock was heading for the front door of the flat. Watson flicked off the kitchen light and sped up to reach Holmes as he was reaching for the door latch.

"Well?" said Watson

"Yes we can stop at a takeaway," said Sherlock sighing petulantly.

"That's not what I meant. What about Sarah Beddington? What's happened to her?"

"Oh she's fine don't worry about her. Probably having a wonderful time, she'll be back by Sunday night at a guess. Now where can we get a taxi?" said Sherlock as he wrenched open the door and a gust of freezing air greeted him and Watson.

"Where are we going?" said Watson, swiftly buttoning up his jacket against the elements.

"The recruitment firm," said Sherlock who had arrested his progress across the gravel forecourt and found something of interest in the positioning of rubbish bags and a recycle box at the front of the property. Sherlock leapt upon them and wrenched open one of the bags, scrabbling inside. Holmes suddenly stood up and grinned.

"It'll be shut now," said Watson reflexively looking at his wrist watch.

"Good. There won't be anyone in the way when we break in."

Twenty yards down the street from Sarah Beddington's flat, a figure dressed in black hugged the shadows between the light from the street lamps and watched as two men, one tall and wearing a long coat, walked towards the main road.

The figure reached in to their jacket pocket, pulled out a mobile phone, and pulled off a leather glove. Slender fingers tipped with dark red nail varnish typed out a text message before hitting the "Send" button.

"Stage 2 is go"

**Chapter Four**

The offices of City Premier Services, the recruitment firm used by Carter &amp; Wright to employ the mysteriously absent Sarah Beddington, were on the second floor of a converted Victorian building that once housed a banking and insurance house within the City of London. The building was a few streets to the west from the ever busy Liverpool Street train station.

London was dark and cold, but had benefited from another day with no snowfall. Patches of ice glistened under the phosphorous glare of the street lights, but increasingly grey paving slabs and tarmac sidewalks were being revealed as the snow dissolved. However the prolonged sub-zero temperatures were still making it treacherous underfoot.

The taxi carrying Holmes and Watson towards the location for their breaking and entering job drove past the front entrance to Liverpool Street train station. Watson looked out of the cab windows at the throngs of people exiting and entering the station, and filling the pavements on both sides of the street, heading towards the various bars and restaurants in the area. Thursday nights in London were increasingly as busy as regular riotous Friday night levels.

Watson felt a tug of nerves and worry in the pit of his stomach; consciously performing a criminal act never ceased to unsettle him. He pursed his dry lips and looked across at Sherlock. Holmes features were as calm and unmoving as an alabaster statue. Sherlock's fingers rapidly tapped at his mobile phone keypad, and his eyes flickered in their sockets as he processed the information he read, but apart from that he was as cool and collected as Watson had ever seen him. Holmes obviously had no problem with consciously committing a crime. John mused that his friend would probably not view it in those terms, rather as some sort of non-traditional data gathering exercise.

Watson's stomach gurgled again, the acidity of his fears aggravating his hunger pangs; he pushed a hand against his stomach.

"Stop here," commanded Sherlock to the taxi driver.

The taxi drew to a halt against the kerb, and barely before the vehicle came to a stop, Sherlock was reaching for the door release and exiting the cab. Watson's eyes stared after Sherlock as the detective dashed behind the cab, and weaved between the two way traffic to cross to the opposite side of the street, heading towards a churchyard.

Watson fumbled for his wallet as he exited the taxi, slipping a note through the open passenger side window to the driver, and then he engaged in an erratic stop and start staggered run to catch up with Sherlock.

Sherlock's long stride paced a quick route through the churchyard and into the side streets and alleys leading away from the rear of the busy train terminus; as the puffing of his shorter companion testified as he tried to keep up with the seemingly random, zigzagging route taken by the great detective. After five minutes of walking Sherlock stopped short at the end of an alley, a quiet dark street running across their path, and an old Victorian building opposite them. The pavement and roadway glistened wet in the street lights, the snow and ice having melted due to the thousands of commuters pummelling these streets every day, and the heat from the buildings in such close confinement keeping the ice and snow from establishing a presence in the area.

A thin whisp of warm air exited from Holmes, whilst Watson puffed out more substantial warm clouds as he regulated his breathing back to normal. Holmes's keen eyes searched the glass entrance doorway to the building opposite them. Watson looked up at the skyline from his vantage point at the end of the alley and noticed their proximity to one of the newly built tall glass buildings adjacent to where the taxi had originally dropped them. John realised that Sherlock had not taken the most direct route to bring them to this spot.

"What was the mystery tour in aid of? Are we being followed?"

"You know me John, I'm always cautious," said Sherlock without a trace of irony.

Holmes suddenly sped from the alley, across the street, and disappeared into the dark narrow pathway at the side of the building directly across from them. By the time Watson caught up with Holmes at the back of the building Holmes had already weighed up all their options and had decided their best route into the building; he also knew that John would hate it.

"After you," said Sherlock to Watson, his hand outstretched.

Watson followed the direction of Holmes's hand motion. There was a sheer metal ladder running up the side of the six storey building with a thin metal frame tunnel running its length. Watson turned to look at Sherlock in disbelief.

"I'm not familiar with the building's alarm system," said Sherlock pointing towards the metal box to the left of the fire exit, its LED display flashing.

"And you think they're not concerned with Spiderman ever breaking in," said Watson sardonically.

Sherlock remained impassive, his arm still outstretched. Watson hung his head and sighed deeply, then walked over to the ladder and began to ascend.

Sherlock was indeed right, the building's security awareness did not extend to the roof, and the great detective was able to easily pick the lock on the roof entry door with one of the tools he kept in the small leather pouch he permanently carried in his coat pocket. This "bag of tricks" also contained his magnifying glass, pipets, and small vials of chemicals.

After both men were safely in the building and heading down the darkened internal stairwell to the second floor, Watson decided to broach the subject of the unusual scene he'd walked into that morning at 221B Baker Street.

"Who was that woman this morning?"

"Hmm," said Sherlock distractedly.

"You called her your Accountant, but she's not is she."

"Yes, she is," said Holmes.

"An accountant with an interest in handcuffs?" said Watson in disbelief.

"Everyone needs a hobby," said Sherlock.

John could sense that he wouldn't get any more information by pushing Sherlock, so bit down a sharp retort and for a while the only sound in the stairwell was the steady patter of Homes and Watson's feet as they descended the stairs.

"She provides me with occasionally useful financial assistance, but she also has another particular talent I require the use of from time to time," said Sherlock breaking the conversational silence.

Watson opened his mouth to push the matter further when Sherlock suddenly stopped his descent of the stairs and held up a leather gloved hand for silence. Sherlock pointed a gloved finger towards the sign on the wall of the stairwell announcing that they had reached Level 2.

Sherlock stepped over to the door, marked with a green fire exit sign, which led into the corridor on the second floor and eased it open. Through a two inch gap Holmes's eyes scanned the dark and empty corridor beyond, checking the ceiling for CCTV cameras. He then opened the door a couple more inches, and keeping his face glued to the lintel of the door frame scanned the corridor in the other direction. Reassured there was no need for extra precautions he flung the door open wide and stepped in to the corridor, leaving Watson to quickly grab the closing door before it could hit him.

Both men silently paced along the corridor to their left, Sherlock's eyes focussed ahead, whilst Watson looked about in all directions, checking for any sign that their presence had been detected. They approached a brown wooden door bearing the logo and name of the recruitment firm that Hannah Croft had contacted. Sherlock allowed time for a brief, tight smile to cross his face, before he used the same lock pick as on the roof to gain entry to the offices beyond. Again, he opened the door very slowly, his eyes eagerly scanning the darkened room beyond for signs of any security precautions. Finding none had been taken, he thought it safe to break the silence they had been operating under.

"They always assume if the lock is good enough on the front door then they must be safe inside. Stupid," said Holmes.

"It's good for us they are," muttered Watson, his stomach gurgling loudly as he closed the door behind them.

Both men reflexively slipped their hands in to their coat pockets and took out their ever faithful small Maglite torches. They were also blessed with the refracted glare of a streetlight directly outside the building, which cast an orange glow through the window that ran the entire length of the recruitment firm's offices. The rectangular carpeted office space was bookended to their right by a couple of office cubicles. A dozen desks, bearing the same computers and phones populated the room, the desks only differentiated by the amount of paperwork, photo frames, and office ephemera residing on their surfaces.

"What are we looking for?" said John.

"I have no idea," said Sherlock.

"And there's me thinking we're breaking and entering for a specific purpose," said Watson sarcastically.

"I'll know it when I see it. I'll try there," said Sherlock, waving his torch in the direction of an office door with a plaque on it reading "Manager", "have a look around, see if you can find any trace of Sarah Beddington, or Carter &amp; Wright"

A few streets away from the location where Holmes and Watson were engaged in their criminal investigation a package was being delivered by a figure clothed head of foot in black to the offices of Carter &amp; Wright.

The after-hours cleaning team, two rather chatty Bolivian ladies with a penchant for singing songs of the Barrio out loud, were the only people in the building, and they were unused to visitors arriving during their shifts. One of the ladies heard the banging emanating from the front door on the ground floor, and immediately went to get her colleague. After a frantic conversation, where both women spoke over the other, they decided they would both answer the door, but that one of them would remain hidden behind it with a broom as a weapon against any would be assailant.

When the front door was opened a crack, one of the women only had a moment to glance at the figure clothed in black, with a scarf around their face, before a package was thrust in to her hands, and the figure dashed away. Once the front door was securely bolted again both women looked at the small, thick brown envelope, addressed to the CEO of Carter &amp; Wright. One of the women walked over to the Reception desk and left it in a prominent position for the staff to find the following morning. Both women then continued with their various tasks, their voices carrying over the noise of two hoovers.

The envelope would be picked up at 07.30am by Mr David Lomas who had worked on the Reception desk at the legal firm for over ten years, and carried personally up to the offices of Mr Dominic Swinburne, CEO of Carter &amp; Wright, to be placed on Mr Swinburne's polished oak desk. Mr Swinburne, as was his usual tradition, greeted Mr Lomas at 08.00am every morning, walked to his office greeting his long suffering PA Margaret en route, and after hanging up his coat was seated at his desk by 08.07am.

By 08.10am an unusually flustered Mr Swinburne was wrenching open his office door and yelling for Margaret to phone Scotland Yard "as quick as you can!"

At the same time that the mystery package was being delivered to the offices of Carter &amp; Wright, Holmes and Watson were engaged upon a hunt through filing cabinets, and desk based filing trays, with no specific purpose or deadline.

Watson kept his torch pointed towards the floor, only raising it briefly as he approached a desk, to flick through any loose paperwork, or to test the handles on the chest of drawers by each desk. Unlike the generally lax tone of security in the building, the owners of the desks in the recruitment firm were more cautious and all but one of the drawers was locked. Inside the unlocked drawers were a collection of shoes, carrier bags, assorted stationary, and nothing with a link to Sarah Beddington or the legal firm.

"Watson!" Sherlock appeared in the open doorway to the Managers office to call his colleague, and then returned to an open grey filing cabinet against the back wall. Watson jogged across the office space and joined Holmes in the snug cubicle.

"Found something?" said Watson, as Holmes thrust a foolscap folder into his hand. Watson rested his torch on the top of the filing cabinet and angled the pliable paper folder towards its beam of light. Upon opening the folder Watson saw an A4 typed form with a small passport sized photo of a young woman attached with a paperclip to the top left hand corner. Watson recognised the woman in the photo, as the woman in the photo frames in the flat they'd broken into not two hours previously; this was Sarah Beddington.

According to the form, Sarah Beddington had signed up with the recruitment firm two years ago, had been employed on two six month term placements, and two three month placements, and had received excellent feedback from all the organisations she'd worked for. Her skills were recorded as extensive and excellent, her time keeping spot on, and her personal qualities "first rate". At the bottom of the form was a sentence that caused Watson to crease his brow in consternation. Sherlock read the expression on John's face instantly.

"Yes, curious isn't it," said Sherlock

"It says she was successful in being placed at Carter &amp; Wright but that she wouldn't be available to start until the 26th. That's next Monday."

"So…"

"So our client got her dates wrong," said Watson.

"Did she strike you as the sort of woman who gets her dates wrong? And that wouldn't explain why someone pretending to be Sarah Beddington turned up a week early to start work. No, there's something here that requires further investigation, but you're going to need daylight and people."

"Me?" said Watson looking up from the form.

"Oh I think a touch of the good doctor's bed side manner is just what the detective ordered," said Sherlock, taking the foolscap folder from Watson, slipping it in the filing cabinet, and slamming the drawer shut.

The sound of the telephone on the desk before them suddenly ringing made both men's heads whip toward the sound; Dr Watson also jumped back two inches and crashed into the filing cabinet. Sherlock headed for the door of the Manager's office, with Watson close on his heels, as the telephone trilled twice more and then fell silent. Watson closed the Manager's office door as they exited the room.

Almost instantaneously Sherlock's mobile phone began ringing. Holmes slipped his hand into his inside jacket pocket, and saw "Caller withheld" on the display.

"Sherlock Holmes," said the great detective by way of a greeting.

"He needs your help, he'll call you tomorrow," said a woman's voice before the line went dead.

"Who was it?" said Watson, registering the slight change in Holmes's expression.

Sherlock cast his eyes towards the Manager's office, and the recently ringing telephone, and another strand of thought began to weave its way across his consciousness, making random connections to other strands as it progressed.

Holmes walked over to the window and looked out to the street below. A lone figure dressed in black stood at the entrance to the alleyway he and Watson had stopped at earlier. The figure, their lower face obscured by a scarf, looked up at the window on the second floor and then turned and was consumed by the dark shadows of the alley.

Sherlock Holmes now had a very good reason to be cautious.

Holmes and Watson retraced their route of breaking and entering, this time in reverse order, and ten minutes later found themselves back out on the dark, cold street in front of the building housing the recruitment firm. This time however Sherlock didn't appear to be concerned about whether anyone was following them, and he took the direct route back to the main road near Liverpool Street train station.

After a few fruitless attempts to hail a cab that wasn't already occupied, the traffic seemed to trickle to a standstill for vehicles coming out of central London, to the point where no cars, let alone taxis were appearing.

Sherlock reached into his inside jacket pocket and extracted his mobile phone, tapping a couple of keystrokes and clamping the phone to his ear.

"Brother dear, how nice to hear from you, and how completely inconvenient," said Mycroft.

"How many streets have you blocked off?" said Sherlock sharply.

"Having a spot of bother getting a cab are we?" said Mycroft at the end of the line. Sherlock could hear the smile in his brother's voice.

"I'm working a case Mycroft," said Holmes wearily.

"Well that's lovely, but some of us have more important matters to deal with, like preventing riots on the streets, the destruction of property, saving lives, upholding democ.."

Sherlock jabbed his thumb over the "Call End" button so violently that Watson thought Holmes might snap the mobile in half. Sherlock gritted his teeth and sucked in his lips, breathing in deeply, and then letting the air, along with his anger, slip away. Holmes flicked up his coat collar and wrapped the lapels over his upper chest.

"It's a nice night for a stroll," said Sherlock sardonically, before he thundered off down the street leading towards St Paul's Cathedral. Watson initially jogged to keep up and then soon matched Sherlock's loping stride with his own quick but shorter stride, arms swinging naturally to the march like an ingrained memory from his life in uniform.

Sherlock managed to hail a cab just as they were approaching Shaftesbury Avenue, and after forcefully instructing the cabbie to ignore his years of using "The Knowledge" and follow Sherlock's strict instructions as to their route back to Baker Street, they managed to avoid all the major traffic problems affecting central and west London, and they reached 221B before the take-away on the corner of the street was closing for the night.

The traffic chaos caused by the protestors was so bad that even the takeaway's delivery scooter hadn't been able to navigate the congestion. The winter chill was also keeping passing trade away; hence the owner had decided to call it an early night. Watson basked in the warmth of the ovens and breathed in the aroma of fried foods and spices; his mouth watering at the prospect of abating his ravenous hunger.

Sherlock sat across the living room table from John watching him with benign amusement as he waded into his Chinese take away. As there would be no conversation with John for a few minutes, Holmes used the time to try and pull the various strands of this intriguing case together in his mind. Sherlock leant back on the wooden chair, draped his right arm across his chest, rested the elbow of his left arm on his right hand and gentled rubbed the fingertips of his left hand across his lips several times.

John had half cleared his plate before he attempted conversation, and continued to chew in between forming sentences.

"You've got that annoying look on your face again," mumbled Watson as he shovelled another forkful of rice into his mouth.

Sherlock broke his reverie and threw a curious expression at Watson.

"The one where you have all the answers and assume I know them as well," said Watson, "you've solved the case already haven't you."

"Yes. No. Well most things are obvious now, but there's one thing that doesn't make sense," said Holmes sitting upright and meshing his fingers together, resting them on the table.

"One thing? Sherlock, nothing has made sense all day," said Watson with a note of exasperation in his tone. Watson waved his fork in the air as he continued to talk.

"Where did you disappear to earlier, where is Sarah Beddington and why shouldn't we be worried about her, who was the woman pretending to be her, and why did she do that, why have I got to re-visit somewhere we've already broken into, and where's my bike?"

The doorbell rang. Sherlock's eyes flicked to the left but he made no effort to move.

"I'll get it shall I?" said Watson petulantly, tossing his fork on to his plate.

As Watson was making his way downstairs, Sherlock stood up, and walked through the kitchen and down the short corridor towards his bedroom. He skipped out of his suit jacket and threw it on the chair by the wardrobe, and picked his second best dressing gown off the bed, slipping his arms into it as he walked back in to the living room.

Watson appeared in the open doorway to Sherlock's right, brandishing a small, jewel encrusted dagger in one hand and a sports holdall in the other.

"Did you hand the reward over?" said Sherlock.

"Yes, it was one of your homeless network. He was a bit taken aback, what with me standing on the doorstep with this in my hand," said Watson archly, holding up the dagger, before adding incredulously "You pinned the envelope to the back of the street door with this?!"

"Mrs Hudson was out, I couldn't find anything else," said Holmes as he walked over to his fireside armchair and theatrically flounced down into it.

Watson hung his head and sighed. John then walked over to Sherlock, dropping the sports holdall by the side of Holmes's chair, before stepping towards the fireplace and gently placing the dagger on the mantelpiece. Watson then settled himself in his armchair, facing Sherlock. Though he could have easily returned to the table and continued eating, Watson was suddenly more interested in filling himself with knowledge not food.

"I'll answer all of your questions John, "said Sherlock, "Although I can't be entirely certain about the location of your bike."

Watson pursed his lips, sank back in his armchair, and folded his arms.

The slender figure clothed all in black had had a busy evening, what with following Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson to Sarah Beddington' flat, and then through the streets of EC1, and delivering the package to the legal offices in the City.

The figure approached a dark blue car parked on a side street behind the Barbican Theatre, slipping a key into the lock and sliding into the driver's seat. Once inside the figure quickly slipped the hood off its head and pulled down the scarf that had been obscuring the bottom half of its face.

Reaching a gloved hand into its right pocket, the figure produced a mobile phone and checked for text messages. There was one.

"Is Stage 3 ready?"

The unknown woman dressed in black, sitting in the car, allowed a small smile to curl up the right side of her face. Using her nimble fingers, tipped with red nail varnish, she tapped out a reply and hit the "Send" button.

"Stage 3 is go"

The woman dropped the mobile into her lap, turned the key in the ignition, checked the rear view mirror, and gently steered the car away from the kerb.

"All the information we've gathered so far points to Sarah Beddington being abroad, Paris I should think."

"Paris," said Watson mystified.

"You saw her flat, romantic novels all over the place, a significant amount of French branded perfume and make up on the dressing table, two French phrase books in the living room, plus several travel books about France, those ghastly magnetic things all over her fridge door with I heart Paris on them, the French themed cookbook on the kitchen work surface.."

"Yes I get the picture, very French," said Watson cutting in testily to Sherlock's deductive reveal.

"Her suitcase was missing, as were at least a week's worth of clothes, shoes, and underwear, and I couldn't find her passport in any of the usual places. She'd sorted out her domestic arrangements, which implies she was planning for being away for several days. And of course there was no sign of a struggle, everything was very neat, the carpet had been hovered within the last 24 hours."

"Domestic arrangements, do you mean the cat?" said Watson.

"The cat? No. the milk. She poured away fresh milk, knowing she'd return to her flat after the use by date had passed. She left herself a shopping list on the outside of the fridge door, top of the list, milk. The recycling collection isn't until tomorrow, but the bags were already outside, and had been there for at least two days."

"So it's all a mistake then, a mix up in dates, she's booked a quick holiday before she starts her new job," said Watson, a note of disappointment in his voice.

"Miss Beddington doesn't think she's on holiday, and nor do I. Sarah Beddington thinks she's already started her job," said Sherlock slowly bringing his hands together in the thinking prayer.

"You've lost me again," said Watson.

"I think the real Sarah Beddington is an alibi and the fake Sarah Beddington is the architect of the whole scheme," breathed Holmes through his fingertips.

"For what purpose? Nothing was reported stolen from Carter &amp; Wright, you're telling me Sarah Beddington is having a whale of a time in gay Paree, where's the crime?"

"It hasn't happened yet Watson. We're seeing the puzzle as it takes shape, but there's no picture on the box to guide us. We've been a step behind so far, we need to draw level," said Holmes leaping to his feet, and reaching into his dressing gown pocket for his mobile phone.

"And how do we draw level?" said John.

"We need to visit an accountant with an unusual hobby," said Holmes cryptically.

**Chapter Five**

Friday morning dawned bright and cold, with a weak blue sky and not a breath of wind apparent to push a cloud across the face of the light yellow sun. Though the early bird commuters were still swathed in their winter layers, the steam emanating off of them like hot racehorses, there was a distinct feeling of change in the air. Intermittently a commuter would turn their closed eyes momentarily to the sun as they made their way across London, Dr John Watson being one of them. Watson took in a deep breath of cold air, yes it was definitely there, a degree or two warmer than yesterday and no snow for a few days; perhaps this long winter had finally conceded it's end had come.

Watson slipped his key into the lock of the front door of 221B Baker Street and was greeted by the ever pleasing aromas of Mrs Hudson's kitchen at breakfast time. Breakfast meat and hot toast comingled pleasantly and Watson's mouth began to water and he stepped across the threshold and closed the street door.

Watson curled a short smile up the side of his cheek and replayed his parting from his wife and daughter that morning. He'd demurred against having breakfast as he was running late and suggested he'd pick up a sandwich on route. Mary had thrown one slow look up at her husband, framed in the doorway of their bathroom, before returning to her daughter kicking her legs in her bath chair.

"Daddy thinks I must be born yesterday if he thinks I believe he's going to get a sandwich, when I know for a fact he'll ask Mrs Hudson to lay on a full English," cooed Mary in a sing-song lilt to her daughter, who smiled her gums and carried on kicking the warm soapy bath water around her.

A couple of minutes later, as John opened the street door to the flat, Mary was suddenly at his side, all amusement gone from her eyes.

"Is this one dangerous?"

"Knackering, yes. Dangerous, no, I don't think so," said Watson, kissing his wife gently on the lips before he stepped out into the partially frosty world beyond their warm and safe one.

"It's just like old times," sighed Mrs Hudson happily as she gently placed a plate bearing a full English breakfast in front of Watson, her dark brown gimlet eyes twinkling. Mrs Hudson glanced down at Sherlock's plate, a small tut of annoyance greeting the sight of the full plate of food laying untouched on the place mat in front of Holmes.

"Some things never change," Mrs Hudson muttered, with a slight trace of wistfulness in her voice, as she headed out of the flat via the open living room door.

The great detective scanned the morning papers, dramatically flicking and folding the fresh broadsheets as he sat across from John at the table in the middle of the living room, the weak morning sun streaming in through the high sash windows to either side of them.

Sherlock never took breakfast when he was working on a case. His only concession to a normal morning breakfast routine being his regular tea intake. Holmes claimed digestion "slowed him down", and no matter how much experience, knowledge, or provable medical benefit to taking food that Watson could offer would ever sway the great detective from this viewpoint.

After the breakfast things were cleared away, and Sherlock sat sipping at another scalding hot cup of tea, John reminded Holmes of their breaking and entering session last night and their need to "draw level" with the fake Sarah Beddington.

"Ah yes," said Sherlock briskly.

Holmes tossed the newspaper aside, stood up from the table and sauntered over to his leather armchair by the fire; the searing orange embers shifted a little in the grate as he did so. Sherlock settled himself into his chair, crossed his legs and languidly draped his arms along the arm rests of the chair. Watson took that as his cue to also separate himself from the living room table and to take his seat in the armchair opposite Holmes.

"When you get back to the recruitment firm you're looking for anything suspicious or unusual within the last two years I should think, perhaps a new member of staff, or a disagreement with a client that was out of the ordinary. Question all the staff, talk to the manager, listen to any gossip, you know do what it is that you do well, chat. Here take this it might be useful," said Holmes, slipping a hand into his second best dressing gown and removing a small oblong card, laminated and bearing a photo of Lestrade, and handing it over to Watson.

"Did you pick his pocket again?" said John, looking down at Lestrade's staff ID badge in his hand.

"Now you know what to look for, something possibly completely inconsequential, but also something of immense significance," said Sherlock.

Ignoring John's bemused expression, the great detective picked up the TV remote control that was nestling down the side of his armchair and jabbed the end towards the TV monitor, on its high bracket in the corner of the room. The 24 hour news channel appeared, with further news about, and film of, the environmental and political demonstrators in Central London.

Sherlock scowled at the images, realising he'd still have to put up with further disruption to his surface travel across London.

"Why aren't you coming with me?" said John as he was reaching for his jacket and scarf, draped over the back of the wooden chair he'd recently vacated at the breakfast table.

"Got to go and see a woman about a cat," said Sherlock before he leapt to his feet and charged off down the corridor towards his bedroom.

"Of course, why didn't I think of that," muttered John as he slipped into his jacket and headed out of the flat.

Molly Hooper's pristine white lab coat, and part of her pale smooth right cheek, was covered in bits of brain matter as Sherlock Holmes walked into the laboratory at Barts Hospital where she worked. Molly had long ago lost her nervous tick whenever Sherlock walked into any room she was in, but a frisson of attraction and excitement, coupled with her natural clumsiness still dogged her every interaction with the great detective.

As Sherlock approached her workbench she managed to tip over a glass measuring vial full of some bright yellow but unknown liquid, slip off her high stool, stub her toe, and flick a piece of brain matter at Holmes; who neatly sidestepped the offending blob of bloody tissue that had fallen on the floor in front of him.

"Molly," said Sherlock.

"Oh, hello," said Molly Hooper doing her best to sound breezy and insouciant, whilst trying to mop up the spilled fluid on the work surface, and resisting the urge to wipe a bloodied latex glove against the side of her hair.

"Tell me about your new cat," said Sherlock, both hands in his coat pockets, as he perched on a nearby high stool.

"How'd you know…?" said Molly, but the look on Sherlock's face stopped the question in her mouth before she could articulate it. Of course he knew she had a cat. He knew everything about her.

The sun shone bright as John Watson made his way across London, this time taking a less circumspect route to the recruitment offices in the converted Victorian building a few streets away from Liverpool Street train station. Watson dipped a hand in his pocket and felt the edge of Lestrade's laminated ID badge nestling within, but decided to leave it in his pocket as he stepped through the door of City Premier Services. Watson decided he'd pull out his trump card only if it was needed. In the event it wasn't.

Having asked to speak to the Manager of the firm about a sensitive issue regarding one of their clients, it was assumed that Watson was on some form of official business without him even having to display any identification. John made sure to mention vague comments about security issues and clearances, throwing in the occasional "need to know" and "I can't really comment about that" phrase, to enforce the Manager's unduly heightened sense of drama. Sherlock would no doubt have identified the Manger having an inflated sense of his own importance and an addiction to television cop dramas in seconds. It took Watson a little longer but he came to the same conclusion.

The man was keen to be as helpful as she could, even throwing in comments about other staff, including their sexual habits, that made Watson cast a curious eye around the room as he was leaving the offices.

Watson wasn't at all sure his visit was worth it as he'd come away with seemingly less than important information about the comings and goings at the recruitment firm over the last couple of years. It was a pretty stable concern, with only two people leaving and one part-timer joining in that time. The only fact of note was that the part-time recruitment consultant in question had come highly recommended, tended to work odd hours, was their most successful consultant, and was the last case officer for one Sarah Beddington. Watson hadn't been able to talk to this woman, Una Meadpem, as the Manager said she'd reported in sick and was liable to be off for a couple of days. The Manager assured Watson he would contact him the moment she "made contact again", making this simple action sound like something from a 1950s spy drama.

Sherlock wasn't inactive whilst Watson was across town finding out about the mysterious Sarah Beddington. Holmes spent some time doing further research online about Carter &amp; Wright in the City of London, and its clients, even at one point phoning a senior civil servant at the Foreign Office who owed Sherlock a favour.

Sherlock headed out of 221B Baker Street into the bright, cold day an hour after Watson had left. Sherlock arrived at his destination within minutes of Watson exiting through the ground floor entrance way to the Victorian building housing the recruitment offices.

"So, anything interesting to report?" said Sherlock as he suddenly appeared at Watson's side.

"Jesus! Will you stop doing that!" said Watson stopping short on the pavement outside the building.

Watson regulated his breathing before continuing.

"I thought you said you weren't going to bother coming here?" said Watson with a touch of exasperation in his voice.

"Our next stop was on route. Taxi!" Sherlock thrust an arm in the air and a vehicle swerved across the road and came to a stop by the side of them.

Once on route to their next location Watson spoke about his visit to the recruitment firm and the very chatty Manager who was willing to tell all about all his staff, not just Sarah Beddington. Sherlock allowed Watson to talk, not asking him any questions or even appearing to be interested as he spent most of the journey tapping into his mobile phone.

"The only person I couldn't talk to was this case officer Sarah had, Una Meadpem," said John looking at the notes he'd made in his notebook. Sherlock threw a quick glance at the page Watson held up to his face to consult.

"You're not likely to talk to her either," said Sherlock staring out of the window of the taxi.

"What do you mean? Is she dead?"

"Nothing so dramatic. Rather unusual name wouldn't you say," said Sherlock looking at Watson.

"I suppose so."

"Just here please," said Sherlock loudly to the taxi driver, who obeyed his passenger's command and dropped both Holmes and Watson off at the end of a broad avenue full of tidy Georgian houses, their white stone shining bright in the sunshine, their uniform black railings and large black wooden front doors a testament to arcane planning regulations governing Grade II listed buildings.

"Who lives here?" said Watson, wondering what kind of odd turn this case was having now.

"Hardly anyone these days, they're mostly converted into offices," said Sherlock as his eyes eagerly scanned both sides of the street as he walked down it.

Watson could see this was the truth as he saw brass plaque after brass plaque announcing lawyers, architects, and accountants having taken up residence in these once impressive homes. Through a brilliantly clean window on the ground floor to his right John caught a glimpse of a dazzling chandelier hanging in a room with panelled wooden walls.

"OK who works here then?" said Watson as he strode to keep up with Sherlock.

The great detective suddenly stopped walking and grabbed Watson, pulling him up the steps of the building nearest him. The entrance to this house had stout pillars, as well as two five foot all weather shrubs in brass pots that provided a small amount of cover from their neighbours. Sherlock shoved Watson against the front door of the building, with himself side by side with his friend, Sherlock's attention fixated on the building next door.

A woman with long blonde hair stood on the black and white tiled entrance way to the building next door, her black patent heels clipping against the stone steps of the building as she slowly descended to the pavement, and began to saunter off down the street in the opposite direction to that which Watson and Sherlock had come. The woman hooked an expensive looking leather handbag over her right arm. Her crisp, well-tailored black trouser suit and leather gloves, her correct posture, and her dark glasses cut a striking image. Watson noticed she wasn't wearing an overcoat; despite the sunny day the temperatures were still hovering around freezing. Perhaps she was popping out on a quick errand nearby.

Sherlock allowed her to get twenty yards up the street before he began to follow her. Watson sped to catch up with Holmes and then silently kept pace alongside him. The great detective kept his eyes fixed firmly on the woman. Something about her shoes pricked a memory in Watson's mind but it kept swerving away from him whenever he tried to latch on to it.

Three streets away, after a succession of quick turns and doubling back on herself that kept Sherlock and Watson on their toes behind her, the woman approached a black taxi parked against the kerb. Instead of getting in the back door the woman stepped off the kerb and approached the driver's door, taking a quick look up and down the street as she did so.

Instead of stopping, or trying to hide behind a tree like any self-respecting stalker, Holmes also stepped off the kerb and walked straight towards the woman, who lifted her face to Holmes as he approached. From the look on her face she not only knew who Sherlock was, but she wasn't at all happy to see him. She ripped the sunglasses off of her face.

"Can't you give me five minutes peace! I'm working!" the woman hissed. She unlocked the car door, wrenching it open and tossing her handbag and glasses on to the driver's seat. She rooted around inside the bag for a hairband and secured her long hair in a ponytail at the nape of her neck. In the foot well of the taxi was a pair of trainers and a baseball cap. She quickly divested herself of her high heeled shoes and slipped on the trainers. To finish off the ensemble she shrugged out of her tailored black suit jacket, picked up the baggy sweatshirt that was draped over the head rest of the driver's seat, and threw it on over her crisp white shirt before securing the baseball cap on her head.

"Get in," she barked at Sherlock.

"Do as the lady says Watson," said Sherlock with mock seriousness as he opened the rear passenger door of the taxi and slipped in to the back seat. Watson followed suit.

Thirty seconds later, sitting in the back seat of the taxi as it tore through the streets of west London Watson suddenly realised why the patent heeled shoes had triggered the memory in his brain. He had seen the woman before. She had been the same woman draped over the arm of Sherlock's chair yesterday morning, watching as his friend struggled to free himself of his handcuffs. This was Sherlock's Accountant.

Thirty minutes later the taxi turned down a unprepossessing side street in a run-down area full of board up shops and municipal housing, across some bumpy tarmac and shattered cobbles towards a series of arches underneath a railway bridge. As the taxi came to a stop in front of one of the arched wooden doorways a train rumbled and clattered across the tracks above them. The Accountant (or should that now be Chauffeur thought Watson) got out, opened up the entrance doors to the lock up it was parked in front of, and returned to the taxi, driving them all inside the large vaulted space beyond.

It was freezing inside the arched space, and dimly lit, and Watson was loathe to exit the vehicle, but as the Accountant and Sherlock had both got out, he followed suit.

The woman was annoyed, John could see the tense pull of a cheek muscle as she stomped about inside the semi-darkened, cold space, wrenching the heavy wooden entrance doors shut, jabbing at the electric light switch near the entrance, and ripping off her baseball cap to throw it through the open driver's side door as she walked the length of the taxi and stood with her back to Watson and Holmes by a table full of equipment at the rear of the lock up.

Watson cast an eye over the table, and the shelves nearby. Along with mechanical equipment he saw radio equipment, ropes, metal climbing equipment he'd only seen during his time in the army. Watson looked about him and saw boxes full of TVs, hi-fis and household electrical items. This was an unusual stockpile and John's mind began to wander at the possibility that the woman might not be involved in an entirely legitimate trade.

The woman whipped around suddenly to face both men. She flashed a stern glance at Watson but reserved her longest and more furious stare for Holmes. She reached up a hand to her head and pulled at the blonde wig that had covered her own mouse brown hair.

"You didn't say there was a deadline on the job," she said levelly, obviously referring back to her last conversation with Holmes in Baker Street the day before.

"This is something different. It's important or I wouldn't have bothered you at work," said Holmes coolly. Watson's brow curled inquisitively at the word "work". What kind of work was she engaged in that required a disguise?

"There's always something else with you. You're never happy unless your life is a constant stream of bloody dramas," the woman said folding her arms across her chest. Watson smiled a tight smile at this last comment. This woman knew him well.

The two stared at each other. After a few moments Watson took a step forward and proffered a hand.

"John Watson, pleased to meet you. Again."

"Call me Sid, likewise," said the woman as she firmly shook Watson's hand, her frosty demeanour giving way to a wide and warm smile.

"Sherlock says you're his accountant," said Watson, his curiosity peaked by her name.

"Does he now?" said the woman as she pulled off the baggy jumper, running a hand through her messy brown mop of hair. "What else did he say about me?"

"Not much actually. You were the woman with the handcuffs and the black hair weren't you?" said Watson feeling a little confused by a woman who changed her hair colour three times in as many days.

The woman smiled again, immediately setting Watson at his ease.

"I'll put the kettle on, and we'll all have a nice chat about what I may or may not be," said the woman.

Lestrade was having a bad day. This wasn't uncommon for him; in fact most of his colleagues would have easily referred to his hang dog expression, slightly rumpled clothing, and lack of jovial outward appearance as a walking "bad day" on a daily basis. And Gregory Lestrade probably would have agreed with them. Today however, even judged by his standards, was a particularly bad day.

Inspector Lestrade was being chased for a monthly report, late by one week, he hadn't filed his overtime figures correctly and was being chased by the finance department, he hadn't finished appraising three of his junior officers and was being chased by the HR department, and his wife had called him four times that morning judging by the missed call display on his mobile phone, so she was chasing him as well. What had he forgotten? It wasn't their wedding anniversary, he'd forgotten that last month.

Lestrade sipped on his third take away coffee that morning, his tie stained with a drop from the second cup, and sighed rather deeply. He slouched back in his office chair and surveyed the paper storm that was his desk. The files on it had increased by at least three inches from yesterday. How's that for observational skills Mr Holmes thought Lestrade, you're not the only one that can spot the difference.

Inspector Lestrade dropped his empty coffee carton in the waste bin at the side of his chair, sat upright, coughed authoritatively, and pulled his chair in towards his desk. He reached for the first foolscap file on the top of the pile, slapped it down in front of him, picked up his biro, and began to work on his backlog.

When one of his junior officers came steaming in to his office two hours later, he could easily have kissed the man bringing him an interruption from the mundane frustration of form filling. Once the junior officer had imparted his news, Lestrade would have gladly slapped the man and returned to his pile of paperwork rather than have to deal with this new madness brought to his door.

Sherlock, Watson, and the woman who obviously was not an Accountant sat on upturned wooden packing crates in the lock up, sipping piping hot tea from mismatched cheap china mugs. Holmes cast occasional apprising glances at the woman, who returned his attention with mocking humour and a raised eyebrow. These two definitely have history thought Watson.

"So….," said Watson, eager to get more background on their relationship, "I'm guessing you two go way back?"

"Sid helped out with a few cases," muttered Holmes.

"You were his assistant?!" said Watson slightly taken aback.

"Hardly," said the woman, with a grunt of disbelief, "you've put in far more hours than I ever did. Love the blog by the way."

"Thanks. So you helped him solve crimes," said Watson, still trying to get his head around the fact that a) Sherlock had partnered up with a woman in his past and b) that he wasn't the first partner Sherlock had teamed up with. John felt a twinge of jealousy, but batted it away as quickly as it had arrived.

"Helped me commit a few as well," muttered Sherlock with a wry smile curling the corner of his mouth.

"What?" said John.

"It's about time for formal introductions and some exposition I think, there's only so long John can wade through innuendo before annoyingly his voice raises two octaves," said Sherlock, taking a long sip of tea before continuing.

"Watson may I introduce Emily Sidney Johnson, Sid to her friends, the best safe cracker and cat burglar in London. Descendant of the notorious Johnson crime family who have driven Lestrade and his former incarnations distracted for the better part of a hundred and fifty years. I have found the need for both sets of her pre-eminent skills over the years, and for a time, before I met you, Sid ably assisted me in a small way with a few interesting cases. I still have an occasional need to call upon her expertise."

John looked from Holmes to the woman and back again, glanced at the cardboard boxes piled on one side of the lock up, and then back at the woman.

"So, you're not…?"

"Not?" said the woman.

"Well, I thought you might be a fence."

The woman burst out laughing, and Holmes looked at Watson with his "how stupid can you be?" facial expression.

"A fence? No, I steal very particular items to order for very particular clients Dr Watson, I don't sell them on."

The woman stood up, dumped her mug on the nearest workbench, walked over to the boxes Watson had been so interested in, opened up the lid of one of the boxes bearing the image of a TV, and slipped her hands inside. She raised her arms, her hands now clasped around clothing and wigs. More disguises thought Watson, who was this woman?

"Never judge a book…..Shall I tell the good doctor how we met?"

It was obviously a rhetorical question as she continued without pause, and walked back over to the workbench where she had left her mug of tea.

"Ten years ago Sherlock set up a fake burglary, caught me in the act and blackmailed me to teach him how to crack locks and break into buildings, and to this day he has me on retainer for any burglary job he doesn't feel skilled enough to do himself. I wouldn't care for my own freedom but he's also managed to find out quite a bit about my family's operations over the years, so if I don't do what he says they all go down with me."

John looked at Holmes, his brow furrowing.

"Oh it gets better Dr Watson. A couple of years ago he throws himself off a building, and I thought, great I'll finally get a day off. But oh no, his parting gift to me was to hand my contact details over to his blackmailing brother. So for the two years Sherlock was off swanning about the world, Holmes Senior has had me on speed dial for breaking into the houses of anyone he doesn't like the look of; which is everyone by the way. My son's beginning to forget what I look like."

"Oh I see," said Holmes standing up and thumping his mug on the upturned crate on his left.

"You see what?" said Sid tersely, crossing her arms across her chest again.

"You're annoyed because you're professional pride has taken a knock," the challenge in Holmes's tone was evident.

"Well how would you bloody well like it if you were constantly forced to use your amazing skills to find missing pets or lost car keys! Mycroft's turned me into a common housebreaker! And now you're back I've got both Holmes boys driving me up the wall."

The two glared at each other, with John looking from one to the other, feeling the growing heat of their anger.

"I'll have a word with Mycroft," Holmes tone was suddenly soft and conciliatory, his expression one of contrition.

"Thank you." The sudden shift in mood took the woman by surprise. Her arms uncrossed and fell to her sides.

"But it'll have to wait; I need your help with a burglary."

The mug, half full of tea missed Holmes's head by an inch as it sailed across the lock up before crashing against the brick wall behind him, shattering into hundreds of cheap china pieces.

After his junior officer had interrupted his mammoth paperwork session with a matter of extreme, and unusual, urgency Lestrade barely had time to listen to his officer's garbled account of the matter before he was ushered out of his office at Scotland Yard, trying to don his coat and scarf as he took the stairs two at a time towards the basement car park. Within a few minutes he was ensconced behind the wheel of his trusty BMW, blues and twos flashing and blaring, and weaving through the streets of London heading towards the Bank of England and the city offices of Carter &amp; Wright.

When Lestrade arrived at the legal firm's building, he parked, half on the pavement half on the street outside, within the cordon already established by the local police who were based out of their offices near Liverpool Street. A uniformed officer greeted him as he climbed out of his car, and escorted him through the building to the office of the CEO Mr Dominic Swinburne. Lestrade's partner, Sergeant Sally Donovan, was already there talking to a female member of the legal firm's staff. Donovan looked up, nodded at Lestrade and carried on talking to the visibly shaken woman, who the officer with Lestrade informed him, was the CEO's PA. The officer then pointed out another person in the room over by the window as the CEO. Lestrade walked over to him.

Mr Dominic Swinburne was seated in a high backed dark red leather chair by a sash window that almost ran floor to ceiling, the mid-morning winter sun streaming in on him, he sat forward and hunched, caressing a mug that emitted wisps of hot steam. The man's face and general posture spoke volumes to Lestrade. Over the last two decades of police work he'd seen enough of these features to know shock and disbelief when he saw it.

"Mr Swinburne, I'm Chief Inspector Lestrade from Scotland Yard. I know you've spoken to my colleagues but I'm going to need you to go through everything once more with me if that's OK?"

Mr Swinburne looked up at Lestrade and nodded feebly. Lestrade dragged the nearest chair, another red leather version, over to the CEO and slipped off his overcoat, draping it over the high back of the chair. Lestrade settled himself in to the chair facing Mr Swinburne.

"In your own time sir," he said gently.

"You were just complaining about demeaning yourself as a common housebreaker. I'm offering you the chance to use your evident talents more appropriately. I hardly think that warrants throwing crockery at me," said Sherlock somewhat sarcastically,"cheap crockery as well."

"You literally make my teeth itch," said Sid through gritted teeth.

Watson decided to try and steer Sherlock and Sid away from a protracted domestic by bringing the conversation back to the proposed burglary.

"What do you need to break in to now?" said John.

"The offices of Carter &amp; Wright," said Sherlock to John without shifting his eyes from the woman in front of him.

"The legal firm? They can't have that much more security than the recruitment office, your lock pick would be enough surely?" said John.

"I gave him that," said Sid to Watson, pointedly.

"I would have thought so too, but I dropped by briefly yesterday and noticed they had standard security at the entrance but a couple of the executive offices had more eloquent protection, and it's those offices I need to see inside," said Sherlock, turning away from both John and the woman and slipping his phone out of his pocket. He began pacing and tapping his fingers over the device.

"ow nhhh\cgsHow eloquent?" said Sid. Her interest obviously peaked by the phrase.

Sherlock allowed a small smile to spread across his face, but hid it away as he turned to face the woman again. He strode over to her until he was standing little more than half a metre distance from her, then Holmes leaned towards her, his face only inches from hers, his dark eyes alive with possibility.

"Positively poetic," breathed Sherlock.

The woman remained still, looking into Sherlock's eyes. She paused a moment before speaking.

"You're a very bad man," Sid replied slowly and quietly.

Sherlock arranged for Sid to meet Watson and himself at Baker Street later that night, and gave her the address of the offices of Carter &amp; Wright. Sherlock had no doubt that Sid would lose no time in hustling across London to investigate the firm's location before their visit of criminal intent after dark. He had always applauded her professional attention to detail and her ability to focus solely on the task at hand. Their personalities clashed, but their similar working methods had always gelled pleasingly.

Holmes and Watson left the arched lock up under the rail bridge and walked towards the nearest main road to find a taxi to take him back to the flat in Baker Street.

Watson asked to be dropped off near King's Cross so he could make his way back to his own home and spend some time with Mary and the baby. Sherlock had assured him that his services were not required until much later that night, reasoning that Watson would "only get in the way" of the studies Sherlock would be engaged on until Sid arrived for their rendezvous. Watson had suggested that it would be better that Sherlock got some rest if they were going to pull another all-nighter, but received a look of dismissive scorn from his friend.

"Fine, go and spend hours experimenting on body parts you're keeping in the fridge then. I'll get some sleep and some food and I'll see you later," said Watson caustically as he exited the taxi at Kings Cross station.

Just as the taxi was approaching Baker Street Sherlock's mobile rang. Sherlock saw "Lestrade" displayed on the screen.

"Have you moved those protestors on yet, I'm still having trouble getting a taxi when I need one," said Sherlock as he held the mobile device to his ear, forgoing any attempt at a civil greeting.

"Sherlock I keep telling you, it's not my department," said Lestrade testily.

"What do you want then?"

"I think I've got something you might be interested in. Have you heard of Cater &amp; Wright?"

Sherlock stared into space; another connection was made in his quick fire brain.

"Where are you?" he demanded of Lestrade.

"Barts lab, you need to get here quick, I'm borrowing some evidence for you to have a look at," said Lestrade.

Sherlock didn't even pause for thought, he shouted at the taxi driver to change course and take him "at any speed" to Barts Hospital. Holmes then typed a text message to Watson on his mobile.

John had been home for about five minutes, and was standing in his kitchen raising a sandwich to his lips when his mobile beeped out a text alert. Watson walked over to the kitchen table, picked up his mobile and read the message from Holmes.

"Change of plan, get to Barts lab now"

Watson's teeth clamped down on the sandwich as he slipped his mobile in his back pocket and walked towards the front hall to retrieve his coat. As he was putting it on Mary emerged from their bedroom, slowly and quietly closing the door.

John stepped forward, but Mary held her finger to her lips to indicate quiet. She walked over until she was standing very close to her husband. John's expression was one of contrition and apology, but he looked a comical figure standing there with a sandwich clamped in his mouth. Mary tipped her head to the side and smiled, before whispering very quietly.

"If you come crashing through that front door again and wake that child, you will have to change every nappy for a week as penance. I had taken me three hours to get her to sleep."

John removed the sandwich from his clamped teeth and mouthed the word "Sorry".

Mary kissed him and then took the sandwich out of his hand and started eating it as she turned her back on her husband and headed towards the kitchen.

When Watson arrived at the lab at Barts Hospital, that Mycroft sarcastically referred to as Sherlock's "second home", Sherlock was seated at a lab table and peering through a microscope. Molly was hovering around Holmes as usual fetching him equipment and assisting with conducting tests, and Lestrade was pacing about behind Holmes, looking at his watch, looking stressed.

"What's happened" said John as he approached Sherlock.

"What do you think?" said Holmes, reaching out a hand and pointing at a clear plastic bag on the lab work table to his left. Watson walked over, and his stomach muscles clenched.

Watson looked over at Lestrade, and then at Sherlock, who had turned from his perusal of the specimen under the microscope to look at Watson.

John turned again to view the object on the work surface. Lying inside a plastic police evidence bag, nestling inside a small white lidless cardboard box, was a severed human ear.

**Chapter Six**

"Whose ear is this?" said Dr John Watson slowly and calmly, as he pointed at the body part in question on the workbench in the lab at Bart's Hospital. The ear looked alien and bloodless in its pristine white box, nestling on a bed of spotless white gauze, housed in a clear plastic police evidence bag. Watson's keen and experienced eye knew this belonged to an adult male, and that whoever had perpetrated the violent act that rendered this ear separate from its owner had done so with some skill as the skin of the body part was smooth, and the edges of the trauma sharp.

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but it was Lestrade who jumped in with the relevant details, which made Holmes purse his lips, roll his eyes, and return back to the view finder of the microscope in front of him.

"Mr Stephen Arnold, chief accountant at Carter &amp; Wright since 2011. It's a legal firm in the city, been there over a hundred years. The package was hand delivered last night, put on his boss's desk this morning, and was the first bit of post the poor man opened. He's still a bit green around the gills," said Lestrade stepping forward to hand Watson another police evidence bag that he'd been gripping in his hand as he walked up and down the lab room behind Holmes.

At the sound of the phrase "Carter &amp; Wright" Watson had looked sharply at Sherlock, who didn't look up to acknowledge the reaction on his friend's face, but did allow a small smirk to spread across his face in recognition of Watson's obvious astonishment.

Watson held out his hand and took the clear plastic bag from the Inspector. Inside it was a small sheet of white unlined paper, with the words "He should have listened" written across it in capital letters in blue ink.

"It came with the ear," said Lestrade by way of explanation.

Watson had seen many things in his time as a medical student, an army doctor, and most recently local GP, and some of those things he would happily never want to see again, but it was always the planned and co-ordinated acts of violence by one human being on another that Watson found the most disturbing; he'd seen plenty of these acts since he'd started working with Sherlock Holmes. Watson looked at the ear in its box again, and a chill feeling slipped down his spine. Somewhere out in the world was a person in pain and somewhere near them was the human being that had inflicted that pain; pain for a purpose. Watson swallowed down his distaste at the thought.

"Sherlock are you finished, I've got to get this back to our lab," said Lestrade edgily, sneaking another glance at his wrist watch.

"There's nothing more I can glean from the evidence you've given me," said Sherlock in a slightly bored tone, not bothering to raise his eyes from the microscope's view finder.

Lestrade snatched back the evidence bag in Watson's hand, scooped up the police evidence bag containing the severed ear from the work table, and dashed over to the lab door. As he pulled the door open he turned to face the three figures remaining in the room.

"I'll call you if we find anything," said Lestrade as he exited the room.

"I won't hold my breath," murmured Sherlock, loud enough for both Watson and Molly to hear; and John was pretty sure that Lestrade had also heard judging by the look on his face as he left the room.

"Carter &amp; Wright?" said Watson as he stood at Holmes's side.

"Yes, interesting isn't it," murmured Sherlock, still focussed on the microscope.

"One member of staff goes missing, another one has his ear lopped off and sent thorough the post to his boss. Yes, it's a bit interesting Sherlock," said Watson sarcastically.

Holmes suddenly stood up and walked over to the high stool where he had dumped his overcoat, slipping quickly in to it.

"Molly text me the results of those blood tests," said Sherlock hardly glancing at the woman in question, who had blushed a little as Sherlock had flicked up the collar of his great coat. Despite knowing that it was no use pouting after Sherlock Holmes, some habits died very hard.

"I'm just off now, I've got an appointment. I'll get Ross to send them," said Molly.

Sherlock, who was walking towards the exit door of the lab as she spoke, arrested his progress and turned to face Molly. Holmes's eyes darted up into the corner of their sockets momentarily, as if he was trying to access a thought or phrase that proved elusive, before he settled on a reply.

"Right, because you'll be somewhere else," said Sherlock very slowly, his eyes staring off into the mid distance.

"Yes," said Molly drawing out the length of the short word, and throwing a confused look at Watson, who simply shrugged.

Sherlock then turned on his heel, reached for the door handle and exited the lab, closely followed by Watson.

"Where are we going now? Carter &amp; Wright?" said John.

"No, plan stays the same for that, we'll break in later. Lestrade could easily give us access to go there now but I don't want anyone watching what we're doing," said Sherlock somewhat distractedly.

"You think it might be an inside job, the kidnapping?" said Watson, trying to follow Holmes's train of thought.

"Kidnapping?" said Sherlock, who suddenly stopped walking and stared off into space, his eyes alert and his expression consumed by thought.

"The bloke, Arnold, who's ear's been lopped off. Surely it's kidnapping. They'll be asking for a ransom next." A thought then suddenly popped into Watson's brain. "This is the crime you were talking about, the one that was coming that we needed to get ahead of isn't it," said Watson.

"Oh John we haven't even scratched the surface of this case yet. It's so deliciously convoluted no-one could see the grand scheme of it. Well no-one apart from me that is. You look but you don't see. And at the moment I can only see what she's allowing me to. She's keeping everything very close to her chest, all the evidence is there, but it's hidden in little separate boxes like in a vault…."

"She?" said Watson mystified. But Holmes ignored the interruption and continued.

"Of course, it's obviously a woman. My guess is the next message will arrive tomorrow morning, so it's vital we get inside Carter &amp; Wright tonight, without any prying eyes watching over us," said Sherlock, who then wrapped his coat around his body and walked off down the long corridor at Bart's, heading for the exit, the street, and yet another search for a taxi to take them across London.

For the rest of that Friday afternoon Watson pottered around the flat in Baker Street, he made endless mugs of tea, he chatted briefly to Mrs Hudson, he flicked through a few newspapers, he watched some television, he made himself a snack, and he phoned Mary twice; all to while away the hours until the scheduled meeting with Sid Johnson. And all during this time Watson betrayed his basic inability to manage his patience, bide his time, and wait.

Waiting was a breeze to Sherlock. He had the patience of a man competing at an Olympic level in that discipline. He could remain immobile for hours, the only sign he was actually alive the subtle movement across his upper torso during inhalation and exhalation. Holmes could be calm in the midst of a hurricane rattling around him. Watson often joked that he could set a bomb off under Sherlock and he still might not be able to distract his attention from a problem he was focussed on.

Brain work took commitment and focus, a single minded attitude that excluded all peripheral, and to Sherlock's mind, useless minutiae; the kind that saturated the lives of any normal mortal being on the planet on a daily basis. The kind of minutiae that flooded through John's mind as the hours ticked by.

Watson looked across at Sherlock occasionally during their long wait at the flat at Baker Street that afternoon and evening, reflexively checking that he was breathing, offering tea, offering food, offering comments from paper and TV news articles; but hardly got a word out of Holmes in reply as the great detective sat, and thought, and waited.

Sherlock wasn't totally immobile, he disappeared down the corridor towards the bathroom and his bedroom once, and he spent a little bit of time on one of his several laptops lying around the flat, or on his mobile when he couldn't be bothered to get up from his arm chair to pick up another laptop. Even then, his fingers may have gone flying across the keyboard, but the rest of him remained largely sedentary.

Sherlock's face hovered between a placid and completely expressionless mask, and that of a slightly curious but almost bored man. Watson knew by experience that the latter expression signified a leap forward in the case, which anyone else would have celebrated by leaping about and exclaiming, but which Sherlock greeted with a small "Hmmmpf" noise.

John knew Holmes of old now, and knew better than to disturb his train of thought, or ask him too many inane questions. When Sherlock had it all sorted out he'd reveal everything to Watson soon enough. Watson just had to be patient and wait. Unfortunately patience and waiting were not skills that Watson had ever mastered.

Sherlock had once told John his inability to keep still and not question Holmes about a particularly tricky case was the equivalent of him shouting in Sherlock's face and flailing his arms about. Watson vividly remembered what Sherlock had said next. Then, as now, the irony of Holmes's comment at the time was not lost on John.

"It's excruciating watching you sometimes. Questions bang around in your head with no direction and very little creative thought like misdirected fireworks. It must be like a traffic jam in there, all that noise, all those thoughts stuck with nowhere to go. I often have to leave the room for fear of saying something that might offend you."

Sherlock's reverie in his armchair was finally broken a little before 12.30am when his mobile trilled a text alert. Holmes picked up the device and read the text message that had been sent;

"Taxi for Holmes Junior"

Watson had been asleep for the past 45minutes, much to Holmes's delight, as the silence and stillness in the flat had allowed him the luxury of some quality thinking time. Sherlock glanced for a few seconds at the deep rise and fall of his friend's chest, his arms thrown across his lap as he slumped in his fireside armchair, completely comfortable and at ease in his untroubled sleep. What was an untroubled sleep like mused Sherlock, it had been so long since he'd had one he couldn't remember.

Sherlock stood up, walked into his bedroom and retrieved his overcoat and scarf, along with a pair of black leather gloves, and then walked back into the living room and stood behind Watson's chair.

"Watson!" bellowed Holmes, and slapped his gloves against the chair.

Watson started violently awake. The image of a previous violent awakening in a war zone flashed across the back of his retina. John instantly wiped his blurred eyesight with his hands, assured himself he was not back in Afghanistan but in a flat in west London, and blew out a calming breath. He then sensitively flexed his neck muscles as he realised he had a crick in his neck from the way he'd been sleeping in the armchair.

"Burgling time," said Holmes as he swept out of the living room, his manner and tone alert and alive.

Watson scrambled to keep up, locating his mobile, his coat, and his scarf, and he stumbled out of the cosy warmth of the living room, all vestiges of his recent peaceful slumber gone in an instant. The game was on, and Watson knew he'd need all of his wits about him.

Sherlock was leaning in through the driver's side window of the taxi talking to Sid as John emerged through the street door and slammed it shut. Then he joined Sherlock, who had slipped into the back of the taxi, and they set off. There can't be that many burglars that get chauffeur driven to their crimes thought Watson.

Lestrade's day went from bad to worse. His mood paralleled the descent and wasn't helped by his mounting caffeine levels that only increased during the course of the day. After getting the slightly delayed evidence bags to the police laboratory at Scotland Yard the techs had set to work trying to discern anything they could from the ear and the note that accompanied it.

Meanwhile Sergeant Donovan had been left in charge at Carter &amp; Wright getting eye witness statements from any of the staff present that morning, and once tracked down, from the two South American cleaning ladies who had received the package the previous night. Donovan was also charged with getting the team to go through the CCTV footage from inside the legal firm and surrounding offices, and from the street outside. After several hours of work the evidence was leading them up blind alleys.

Lestrade visited the flat rented by Stephen Arnold in east London, spoke to his neighbours, and then walked around the immediate area, even dropping in to the local corner shop to see if they had any contact with the missing man. Lestrade was essentially building up the profile of a man that no-one knew much about, that lived alone, that was entirely normal, and in the view of one of his work colleagues "a bit boring really".

Mr Arnold was not rich, or even comfortably well off. The legal firm he worked for was well thought of in legal circles but was not a large concern with international branches. A concerted search for anything on the police database about Mr Arnold, Carter &amp; Wright, or any of his colleagues therein, drew a blank. The whole case made no sense whatsoever, there were no finger prints or other clues on the note or the ear, and nothing more had been heard from the person or persons unknown who had committed this crime.

After eight hours of constant work by his team, he pulled everyone together, ran through the evidence they had accumulated, and events that had led them up until that point, shouted a bit, and sent anyone home who was at the end of their shift. The last thing everyone on the team heard was Lestrade yelling,

"Go through it all again, there has to be something!" as he entered his office and slammed the door shut.

Sid Johnson, dressed in close fitting black clothing, with a web mesh multi-pocket belt strapped around her waist, and again wearing the baseball hat from earlier, drove Sherlock and Watson through the streets from west London towards the Bank of England at a steady pace, making sure she cut up the odd double decker London bus, and jumped a set of lights. To any interested bystander she was driving like a bone fide taxi driver in London on a Friday night. This time Sid went wigless, with her natural medium brown hair spilling out from underneath the baseball cap.

Holmes and Watson sat silently in the back of the taxi, looking out of the windows at the dark streets beyond, fluorescent lights bathing the pavements and the people as they sped past. Friday night revellers braved the chill night air to smoke cigarettes outside pubs, bars and restaurants; their warm breath comingling with the expelled smoke around them.

The taxi's journey passed relatively uneventfully apart from one unusual hiatus. They had been heading east for several minutes when Sherlock suddenly leant forward and tapped on the glass dividing the rear passengers from the driver. Sid suddenly swerved to the right directly across oncoming traffic, missing a van with inches to spare, and parked against the curb on the opposite side of the road. Watson, who had been gripping on the handrail in the back of the taxi, looked with some alarm at Holmes, who he could see had a twinkle in his eye as he scanned the vehicles behind and in front of them during this manoeuvre.

Once the vehicle was stationary Holmes opened the passenger door and exited the taxi, making a show of reaching in through the window opposite the driver as if payment was being made.

"C'mon John," said Sherlock tersely.

As Watson stepped out of the taxi and closed the passenger door, the vehicle sped off back in the direction of Baker Street. Holmes then started walking up the street in the opposite direction to the route the taxi had taken. After about a minute, he darted across the street, weaving through the traffic, and down a street leading off of the main thoroughfare, and then proceeded to lead Watson on a merry goose chase down back streets and side alleys, until Watson lost all faith that Holmes knew where he was going.

After about fifteen minutes off this magical mystery tour, Sherlock came to a stop at the end of a narrow passageway. In front of both men was the busy thoroughfare outside Liverpool Street station, full of its Friday night revellers, with buses and taxis stopping at various points to disgorge their occupants on to the bustling streets around the train terminus. When Holmes thought that a suitable amount of time had passed, or a reasonable crowd of people had appeared he took hold of Watson's arm and steered him out from the dark passageway and into the light and noise of the street beyond.

After weaving through a throng of people, several of whom were the worse for wear for drink, Sherlock suddenly swerved towards the edge of the pavement, stopped and opened the rear door of a taxi that had appeared in front of them, pulling John in to the back of the vehicle. As it pulled away from the kerb, Watson looked at the back of the driver's head, and saw the pony tail of a brown haired woman. Sid had dispensed with the baseball cap.

"Any sign?" said Sherlock.

"Yeah, a blue Nissan stopped. You were followed for about three minutes before you lost them," Sid shouted from the front of the cab, "one of your homeless network took over from me."

"Is it same person that followed us last night?" said Watson who had gathered his thoughts enough to know that Sherlock and Sid had planned this whole cloak and dagger act as Watson was making his way down the stairs of 221B Baker Street less than half an hour ago.

Sherlock looked at Watson.

"A reasonable hypothesis," he muttered.

Sid eventually parked two streets away from Carter &amp; Wright's building. Sherlock noted with approval that she had placed the vehicle in a quiet street, but not so quiet that a taxi would look out of place, and that their location didn't have too many CCTV cameras nearby. Sid got out of the taxi and gently closed the driver's door after her. Her keen brown eyes scanned up and down the street, making a final check on the suitability of their location. There were no buildings that overlooked their spot with any late night workers present, all the windows were in darkness, and Sid hadn't seen any security or police patrols as she had circled the area once before returning to park there.

Watson, Sid, and Holmes walked in tense but companionable silence towards the building housing the legal firm of Carter &amp; Wright. Sid led both men down a small alley that took them to the back of the building and stopped before a wide wooden door painted black. Above the door was a grey metal walkway jutting out of the side of the building, with a set of staggered metal stairs leading from the walkway criss-crossing at angles up the side of the building towards the roof. All three looked up at this emergency fire exit, but only Watson groaned inwardly. Not again he thought.

"I'll be five minutes, don't go wandering off," said Sid, before she stepped back half a dozen steps and then running forward leapt up to grip on to the metal walkway above the door. The cantilevered flight of stairs attached to the walkway descended down, as Sid used her weight to force the flight of steps down to ground level. Sid nimbly disappeared up the steps and then pulled at the catch at the top of the flight of steps and the metal stairway rose back into its default position under the walkway. Watson and Holmes then watched as she ran up the stairs of the fire exit leading up the side of the building, stopping at a window a couple of floors above them. Sid ran her black gloved hands around the window frame and within a few seconds Sid had opened it and disappeared inside the building.

Less than two minutes later, the door that Holmes and Watson were standing in front of opened, and Sid beckoned them in. The three figures then walked in single file, Sid at the front and Watson bringing up the rear, through the dark and quiet building, taking the internal stairwell this time, until they arrived at the floor where the executives of the legal firm had their offices.

Sid gently and slowly opened the stairwell door and checked floor and ceiling for any signs of the "eloquent" security protection Sherlock had promised. Finding none Sid stepped out into the dark expanse of the cavernous square room, with an array of office desks bearing computers and phones and trays full of papers. Dim fluorescent lighting cast shadows at the edge of the room off to their right where there was a bank of large windows facing out on to the street at the front of the building. On the other three sides of the room Watson could see closed wooden doors guarding the entrance into several office cubicles, a few of these office cubicles had a front wall of glass and contained a desk, some chairs and few frond heavy plants, the contents of other cubicles were completely hidden behind wooden walls or frosted glass.

"Time for the dog to see the rabbit," said Sid, all purpose and intent. She then slipped along the left hand side of the room, her eyes scanning floor and ceiling, testing doors, pausing to listen every so often as she worked her way around the periphery of the large open plan office space. Sherlock and Watson whispered to each other as they watched Sid conduct her professional assessment of the room. Sid slipped into a couple of the office cubicles that bordered the room, expertly and swiftly picking their locked doors.

"That phone call you had last night when we were at the recruitment firm," said Watson speculatively.

"A woman saying "_He'll call you tomorrow, he'll need your help_". I looked out the window and there was a woman in the alleyway in the street opposite us. She clung to us like a shadow, but not so obviously that you'd see her. She was good at her job."

"The same woman that tried to follow us tonight?" said Watson.

"It's a reasonable assumption," said Holmes blandly.

"Who is she, what does she want?"

"Name, rank, serial number. How reassuring your military training hasn't been completely forgotten. I think the more important, and far more interesting question is, what is she?" said Holmes.

Before Holmes had a chance to expound on this subject any further Sid was back in front of them.

"Two offices deserve a look, both over that side. The others don't rate a mention," said Sid looking at Holmes, inclining her head over to the right hand side of the room.

"Show me," said the great detective, his tone serious.

Sherlock Holmes wasn't always right. His skills were expansive and outstanding, his experience and knowledge beyond question, but every now and then there was a fly in the ointment. He couldn't quite get to grips with human nature, and as such the foibles, distractions, emotions, and accidents that befell any other human being on the planet, except Mycroft Holmes, meant that Sherlock couldn't account for every facet of odd behaviour of his fellow human beings.

Holmes had suggested to Watson that the next message concerning the fate of Mr Stephen Arnold would arrive the following morning. In the event, the call came at 12.15am when Holmes and Watson were waiting for Sid to arrive at Baker Street.

Sherlock would have strenuously argued that it was technically Saturday morning and therefore he was correct in his previous deduction, but even the pedant in him wouldn't have been consoled by this victory. A few minutes past midnight was hardly the dawn chorus.

Lestrade had been in bed for half an hour, but was nowhere near sleep or rest, when his mobile trilled on the bedside table. His wife issued a grunt of annoyance and made a small drama of turning over in bed.

"What?!" hissed the Inspector as he thumbed the button on his phone to accept the call.

"Sorry to wake you sir, we've had another message about Mr Arnold," said one of his junior officers.

"God not another body part," muttered Lestrade.

"No sir, it's a video message. It's pretty bad," said the officer, his tone depressive.

"I'm on my way, call Donovan, get her in," said Lestrade.

"Sergeant Donovan's already here sir," said the officer.

"Right, thanks," said Lestrade, his thumb ending the call. He rolled out of bed and headed to the bathroom to splash some water across his face before dressing and climbing into his car. The heated driver's seat was still warm from having vacated it forty minutes ago.

Sid led Holmes and Watson over to the first office she'd highlighted as being of interest. Having already picked the lock, she slid a hand around the door knob with her black leather glove and eased the door open. She held up the same hand immediately barring the way to Watson as he made to enter the room.

Sid pointed into the top right hand corner of the room where a small camera was positioned, facing into the room, with a view of the large wooden desk and the wall beyond with a large glass window behind it. The camera was positioned so that it would also have a view of the wall running parallel to the desk, on their right.

Adjacent to the desk on their right, and against this wall, was another smaller wooden desk, smaller than the one in the centre of the room, and on top of that desk was a very old iron safe about the size of an old-fashioned portable television. On the left hand side of the room, was a tall set of wooden cabinets bearing pictures, certificates in frames, expensively leather bound books, and a variety of crystal and gold ornaments.

"If we keep to the far left we're not seen, but the moment we go anywhere near the centre desk, or the safe on the right, the camera picks us up," said Sid sotto voice.

"Voice activated?" said Sherlock in a whisper.

Sid's eager eyes continued to look up at the camera a she edged a little closer towards it, sticking as close to the back wall as possible.

"No motion sensor only. I can't be sure but I don't think its top end, there's no proximity detector, no LCD display. It's not British, and I don't think it's a European make either. I did a recce in Reception earlier this afternoon, the video is patched through to the security desk downstairs, but there's no night shift on a Friday, so no-one's watching, unless of course there's remote access. Hold on I'll stick it on a loop just in case," said Sid as she edged slowly along the wall running to the right of the door way. So close was she to the wall she almost seemed to flow across it.

When Sid was directly under the camera, she stopped and looked up at it for a few seconds. Then she pulled a small screwdriver, some wire and a mini torch out of the small pouch bag strapped to her waist. Sid slid a chair that was against the right hand wall over to her, stood on it and then reached up to the camera, the mini torch in her mouth casting a faint light over the device. Two minutes later, with the camera having recorded just over a minute of film of the supposedly empty office, it was stuck on a loop of the same shot, sending that image down to the screen at the security desk three floors below them. A brief flicker across the TV screen every sixty-five seconds was the only outward sign that there was anything amiss in the office three floors above the security desk.

Sid then jumped down off the chair and walked immediately over to the ornate old fashioned safe on the desk. Sherlock took this as his cue to investigate the cabinets on the left, and then the central desk in the room. Watson hovered by the doorway and watched them both engaged in their investigations. John cast a wary eye up to the camera to his right.

Lestrade's junior officer was right, the video message was bad. The Inspector winced as he watched the video, posted on a link and sent by email to the Metropolitan Police. The police tech specialists had already been tasked with trying to trace both the addresses for the link and the email. If Sherlock had been there he would have told them not to waste their time. By the time the tech guys had worked out the location the kidnappers would have been long gone, created new email addresses, using random cyber cafes all in various parts of the country, possibly the world.

Lestrade was well aware of this, but if helping to focus and motivate his team meant chasing up blind alleys in pursuit of feeling "useful" to the investigation, then so be it, he'd happily sign off the overtime sheets. Lestrade also knew the time was approaching that he'd have to face the wrath of his Sergeant and pick up the phone to Sherlock Holmes

The images that the Inspector saw on the laptop screen, as he sat at his desk, were shaky, blurred, and dark. A middle aged white man was featured sitting tied to a chair, his face blindfolded and covered in dirt and blood, both streaked with his tears. His voice was choked with sobs as he stammered out the prepared speech his captor had forced him to memorise. Money was mentioned, although the word ransom was not, nor was any comprehensive reasoning behind the kidnap suggested, although Arnold had used the phrase "payment for past crimes".

Lestrade was assuming his tormentor was standing behind the camera, as the man lifted up his head several times as if looking beyond the camera lens to some unseen presence. Lestrade could hear muffled noises off screen, emanating from the shadows that surrounded the victim.

Down one side of the man's face there was the trace evidence of violent trauma, his white shirt covered in blood on the left hand side. A dirty piece of blood soaked gauze covered the left hand side of his face. Lestrade assumed this must be covering the vacant fleshy stump where his ear had once resided, the ear that had been sent to Lestrade, and that now resided in a police lab being dissected for clues. The Inspector swallowed down some bile that was burning up his gullet.

Lestrade sighed heavily as the video images went black and then cut out. He ran a hand over his face. He'd now viewed the same piece of film half a dozen times. Donovan walked in bearing two mugs, and put one down in front of her boss. Lestrade sipped at it and made a face. It wasn't the caffeine hit he was hoping for; it was hot, it didn't contain milk, and it tasted like wet grass.

"The last thing you need is more coffee," she said sternly.

Lestrade threw his sergeant a withering look and thumped the mug down on his desk. He stood up from his desk and stepped over to the window. The ink black night was slowly turning dark grey as the early morning hours encroached.

"Any news from the tech boys?" sighed Lestrade wearily.

"Nothing yet. Whoever sent it has done a bloody good job of covering their tracks. We've verified it is Arnold though. We printed a screen shot and went and woke up his boss. We also showed him a text copy of the statement Arnold read out to camera. Swinburne is adamant he has no idea about these "past crimes" mentioned. He's saying he'll throw his doors open to anyone who wants to go through his books or question his staff," said Donovan who then sipped at her beverage, which was hot, contained milk, and more importantly contained caffeine.

"You believe him?" said Lestrade turning to face his sergeant.

"I do, yeah."

Lestrade sighed again, and turned back to his desk, reaching for his mobile phone lying by the side of his laptop.

"Don't," said Donovan sternly.

"We're up a blind alley here Sergeant," said Lestrade.

"Give the tech boys a couple of hours, if we get no joy then call him," pleaded Donovan.

Lestrade dropped the mobile phone back on his desk and slumped back into his chair. He jabbed a finger on the laptop and began to watch the gut wrenching video images for the seventh time.

Watson finally dared to move further into the room, overseen by the single eye of the camera lens up on high, but unrecorded by it. John walked over to Sid who appeared to be in the same state of alert, focussed raptures in her investigation of the antique safe as Sherlock was over the other side of the room at the ephemera in the cabinets.

"Looks old," ventured Watson as he inclined his head towards the safe.

"This Dr Watson is a piece of art," said Sid breathlessly.

Sherlock was suddenly behind Watson and Sid.

"Can you can get in?" Sherlock's tone was brusque and business-like.

Sid turned to face Holmes and gave him a condescending stare.

"When you said this place was eloquently protected I thought you meant lasers and third generation locks," muttered Sid as she pulled a few pieces of equipment from the bag at her waist, "I wasn't expecting this."

Sid took a step back, placed a hand on each hip, and tilted her head to one side, looking at the safe.

"Well," said Holmes with obvious impatience.

"It's been a while," said Sid, turning to give Sherlock a knowing look. They held each other's gaze for a moment longer than Watson thought necessary. What was that about he thought?

Sid slipped a hand into the bag of tricks she kept at her waist and withdrew a black wire. Watson saw what he assumed was a mobile phone ear piece being pushed into place, the wire thicker than normal, and its end round and flattened like a large coin. Watson suddenly realised it was the equivalent of his old stethoscope. Sid closed her eyes and placed the flattened end against the front of the safe, whilst ever so gently she turned the top dial, before doing similar with the bottom and smaller dial. She then removed the earpiece, and holding the wire in her hand she then retrieved her mini torch and made an intimate search of the entire area around the safe.

Sherlock had paced around the room, peering at several items in and around the desk area, checking the waste basket, and at one point going down on all fours behind the desk whilst Sid was performing her investigation of the safe. Holmes paced over to Sid, gripped his hands behind his back and bounced up on the balls of his feet.

"Well," he said impatience in his tone.

"Strange. It's not linked to any more sophisticated security. Two dials, one numerical and one letter code. The letter code has to be at least six letters but I think the numerical code is only four digits. Can't open it without entering both codes, enter one wrong digit or letter and the device double locks itself. Made in 1924 in Germany; it's a classic. I haven't seen a version like this outside of an auction house or a museum. What's it doing in here? Who's office is this?"

"Mr Jonathan Hatton, principle lawyer and some say the next partner of Carter &amp; Wright. I agree, it is strange," said Sherlock, "show me the other room."

The Metropolitan Police technical support team were stumped, the IP address and the email trail left by the kidnappers was proving particularly cumbersome to unravel. Lestrade's team had got nothing from the search of the victim's flat or talking to Arnold's colleagues or neighbours. His bank details, phone records, credit and store card history, and even his Oyster card had been accessed for useful information, all to no avail. Mr Stephen Arnold was a nonentity, so it was a total mystery why anyone should feel the need to kidnap him and chop off his ear.

All Lestrade could establish with certainty was that Mr Arnold had left work at the usual time on Wednesday evening, and was seen by the security officer at the front desk of Carter &amp; Wright. He was heading for what his PA referred to as "his little golf break" which he took at the same time every year; four days in France. Enquiries with the train company he'd travelled with were still ongoing, but initial reports suggested that he boarded his train on the Thursday morning, and then promptly disappeared.

The next time he was seen he was tied to a chair and missing an ear.

There was obviously a reason behind the chain of events that had brought them to this juncture, there always was, but in this case the reason was hidden from the Met's finest. Lestrade knew it was time to bring in the big gun. It was time to call Sherlock Holmes. Lestrade had actually been phoning Holmes's mobile number for the past twenty minutes; the only trouble was Sherlock Holmes wasn't answering.

As Holmes, Watson and Sid reached the doorway of an office cubicle a couple of doors down from Mr Hatton's office, Holmes slipped his hand into his coat pocket and withdrew his mobile phone. He'd placed it on silent when they'd entered the building, but it had been buzzing on an off for the past twenty minutes.

"Problem?" said Watson noticing that Sherlock had checked his mobile at least three times in the last quarter of an hour.

"Just an annoying reminder," said Holmes, slipping the phone back in to his pocket. Lestrade must be desperate judging by the frequency of the calls.

As Sid gently pushed open the door to the office, Watson saw the name plaque on its shiny wooden exterior said "Mr Stephen Arnold, Chief Accountant."

Watson spared a thought for the man with one ear, and sent a fervent hope out in to the universe that Sherlock could solve the puzzle and return the man back to his nearest and dearest as soon as possible. The medic in him sent statistics about infection rates after trauma, and the after effects of blood loss racing through his brain. As always he feared the worst but hoped for the best.

Watson looked in through the darkened office doorway, the area illuminated in small swathes by Sid's mini torch as it was waved around the room. The light bounced off of the walls and the sparse furniture; there were no pictures, no pot plants, no cabinet of trophies and photos in this room. There was a small stack of neat papers lying on the desk to the left of the computer, but other than this there was no sign that anyone actually used this room. It was cold, empty of any human touch.

"What's so noteworthy about this room?" said Watson mystified. He wondered whether the police during their investigations may have taken away anything that belonged to the kidnapped man, which would explain its barren look.

"That," said Sid, as she focussed the light from the torch on the desk in the centre of the room. As the three of them approached the desk Watson could see there was a single sheet of white A4 paper resting on the top of a small stack of files.

On the sheet was printed a series of numbers in bold black ink, 7, 15, 20, 3, 8, and 1. Underneath this line of numbers was another set of numbers that Watson had intimate experience of. Sid pointed at this set of numbers with her black gloved index finger.

Sherlock looked at the sheet, and then looked at Sid.

"It's a set of co-ordinates," whispered John.

"I'm delighted you remembered," said Sherlock, looking at Sid.

"It didn't all go in one way and out the other," she muttered in reply. Seeing that Watson was nonplussed by this exchange, Sid provided the explanation. "It's the longitude and latitude of 221B Baker Street."

At that precise moment, at that same longitude and latitude, a slender figure, darkly clothed and hooded, was at the rear of 221B Baker Street. The figure nimbly climbed up on to the roof of an outbuilding jutting out of the ground floor flat, and forced open a small window on the second floor. The figure squeezed through this narrow aperture and disappeared inside the building.

Less than five minutes later the mysterious figure re-emerged from the second floor window and slipped down to the ground floor again. The figure walked to the end of the alley at the back of the street and then emerged on to Baker Street proper. The mysterious figure looked up and down the street, and then briefly glanced up at the windows at the front of 221B before walking away into the dark grey dawn of a wintry London morning.

**Chapter Seven**

Lestrade was flustered, and edgily paced around on the cracked paving slabs on the forecourt outside Scotland Yard, puffing on his third cigarette of a very early morning. He made a mental note to buy more nicotine patches. He also regretted not having put his coat on as he stormed out of his office, and the building, in order to smoke away his frustration about the case of the kidnapped accountant. Even though the snow had all but thawed and the temperature had finally risen above freezing, the last biting winds of the winter were still apparent; the Inspector shivered as he smoked and paced.

The technical boys at the Yard had still not come up with any concrete leads, the IP and email address for the link sent by the kidnappers was still bouncing around Europe with no definitive location, although their work to date had placed the location in France twice as they unravelled the electronic trail. The Yard lab team had verified that the ear belonged to an adult male with blood type B, which GP records confirmed was the same blood type as Mr Arnold. The lab also mentioned the ear had been frozen within the past seven to ten days, they assumed for the purpose of sending it through the post.

The Inspector had phoned Sherlock's mobile half a dozen times before he gave up. He knew Holmes would get back to him when he found the time, when it was convenient for Sherlock rather than the other way round. Lestrade sucked on his cigarette again and silently cursed being so dependent on Holmes. There was obviously a case demanding Sherlock's attention, but who was to say it was any more important than the one that was consuming Lestrade's every waking hour?

Sid was exasperated.

"You get me to break you in to a building, you show me an antique safe, and you don't want me to crack it?!"

Watson, Sid, and Holmes had made their way out of the offices of Carter &amp; Wright via the internal stairwell and the rear door on the ground floor, having made sure that all the doors they had unlocked were re-locked, and that the CCTV image was taken off of its looped track in Jonathan Hatton's office. They left everything in place, even the sheet of paper bearing the list of numbers and co-ordinates; although Sherlock made sure to take several photos of the paper on his mobile phone.

The three of them stood in the alleyway at the rear of the building under a rapidly lightening night sky on a wintry Saturday morning, their breath emerging from them in little puffs, that then mingled in the crisp air around them.

"If I'm right we won't need what's inside it. Right now it's more important I look inside Arnold's flat. Watson, call Lestrade and get the address, and tell him to meet us outside. And tell him to bring along any communication he's received about Arnold. We've taken precautions to be unobserved but there's every chance the orchestrator of this plan may decide to bring her timescale forward. She's been deliciously meticulous with her organisation so far but I can't rule out an emotional variable, not having an intimate acquaintance with her."

"You're rambling now," said Sid and Watson at the same time.

Sherlock turned his back on both of his colleagues and jabbed a thumb at his mobile phone, before striding up towards the end of the alley with the phone at his ear, his conversation quiet enough to evade both Watson and Sid's hearing in the empty alley.

Watson cast a sympathetic expression towards Sid and then reached for his own mobile phone to call Lestrade. Sid looked at Holmes's retreating form, snorted out a breath, and turned on her heel to walk in the direction of her taxi. Watson's head flicked from right to left and back again as he watched Sid and Holmes walking in opposite directions, and then with his phone clamped to his ear he raced to catch up to the great detective.

The mysterious hooded figure, having left 221B Baker Street made her way across London heading east. After walking to the bustling all night area between Soho and Covent Garden, the figure stopped for a while seemingly to people watch, soaking up the post-party atmosphere of central London, sipping on a coffee purchased from a 24 hour cafe. Though not teeming with people, there were still enough on the streets of central London for her not to arouse the suspicion of police patrol cars in the area, or any eagle eyed officer watching CCTV images back at the Yard.

A short trip on a night bus was the next stage of the journey for the hooded figure, followed by a protracted walk through back streets and side alleys towards north London, often doubling back over the same area, until at last the figure turned south east and headed to Liverpool Street station, reaching it shortly after it had opened for the day. Despite the early hour there was still a moderate amount of throughput at the station. Some people had missed their last train home, on purpose or by alcohol-induced accident, and these bleary eyed souls were now boarding the first trains out into the Home Counties. Others were arriving on the first trains in for work, or to make connections onwards for pleasure. The ferry train to the East Anglian coast saw a sudden arrival of suitcase wheeling passengers boarding to head for the boat connection to the Continent.

The figure in black with the blood red nails who had been tailing Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson across London for the past two days seemed to have lost interest in the chase for the time being. Her face was largely kept in shadow by the hood of her sweatshirt which resided under her short fitted jacket. Her eager dark eyes scanned the area around the Liverpool Street station concourse, watching the passengers making their way to or from the trains. It was almost as if she was scanning the faces for someone she recognised.

Her plans were in place, they had been worked on, organised and finessed for several weeks before they became operational. Her expertise and skill had been tested to the limit this time round due to one reason. Sherlock Holmes. The mystery woman was certain that she was not being followed; she knew that all eyes were focussed on another person, Stephen Arnold, but with Sherlock on the case she was willing to make the effort and take extra precautions; hence the convoluted journey across London, and her brief residence at a random train station.

The mystery woman walked over to an outlet on the forecourt selling food and purchased a few items, and then taking a high vantage point on the second tier of the station, she settled herself on a long grey metal bench and ate her small picnic, her eyes never moving from the movement of people on the concourse below.

Her mobile phone trilled a text alert. She swiftly removed the phone from her jacket pocket, and accessed the text.

"Stage 4 is go"

The figure stood up and walked down the stairs towards the tube station entrance on the concourse below.

It was now Sherlock's turn to be on edge as he paced up and down on the pavement outside the building where Mr Stephen Arnold's flat was. Holmes pushed his coat sleeve back and looked at his watch again, before snorting out a breath and pursing his lips.

Lestrade's silver BMW arrived with a screech of tyres in front of Holmes. The detective cast a withering glance at the Inspector as he exited the vehicle, a laptop secured under his arm. Lestrade bit down a sarcastic comment about trying to get hold of Holmes for the past two hours, and shouldered past him to the front door of the building, letting all three of them in with the spare keys that Arnold had left in his office at Carter &amp; Wright, and that Lestrade had pocketed nearly 24 hours ago.

The three men climbed the short flight of stairs to the first floor of the modern building; the features were all chrome, dark wood and glass with smooth walls painted soothing bland shades of beige. Watson imagined that young, busy professionals who worked in the City would live in such a place. These brand new builds were all the same, stylish, low maintenance, and soulless; but ideal for the first time buyers as they spent all their time making their mark in their chosen careers. The thought occurred to Watson that it was an odd place for an established accountant in his late forties to take residence.

Lestrade again used the keys to open the door to Arnold's flat. Sherlock barged through into the hallway, and began an intimate search of all the rooms leading off of it. Lestrade hung back behind with Watson, explaining about the video message the kidnappers had sent and tipping his head to indicate to the laptop held under his arm. The Inspector had spoken loudly enough for Holmes to hear but Sherlock made no comment about the recent message sent to the team at Scotland Yard.

Watson wandered around the flat making his own deductions, the first of which was to remark upon the vast difference between their investigation of Sarah Beddington's flat, and the flat of Stephen Arnold. Sarah's home had breathed colour and life, it was personable, if a little cluttered, but completely reflective of the personality of its owner; warm-hearted and loud. Stephen Arnold's flat was as stark as his office, with bare walls and very little in the way of personality or occupation. The flat was cold, not just because the heating was switched off, but because it felt hollow and sterile. Watson was getting no sense of who Stephen Arnold was; which made the mystery of why he would be chosen by his kidnappers all the deeper and more obscure.

Mini-magnifying glass in hand Sherlock loped around the flat, peering at a variety of seemingly innocuous items, opening cupboards and drawers, kneeling to peer at the carpet several times, inspecting the fridge and the bin in the kitchen, and then he finally he came to a stop in the living room by the window that overlooked the street. Holmes gently pushed the slats of the wooden blinds apart and glanced out on the street below. Sherlock's gaze rose from the street up to the windows of the flats on the opposite side of the road. The building was older than Arnold's and there were more lace curtains on display. Sherlock's gaze stopped to rest on a vase full of roses, with large blood red petals, on a window sill of the flat directly opposite Arnold's. Holmes took in a short sharp breath, and made another cerebral connection.

Dawn had come but the cold air and the early hour were still keeping people indoors. The street outside was quiet, and vehicle traffic was relatively light.

"Well?" said Lestrade.

"Show me," said Holmes, walking over to Lestrade, who flipped open the laptop cover, placing the machine on the dining room table, its surface unblemished and shining, with not even a bowl of fruit to adorn it. Lestrade waved his finger over the laptop pad and then hit a button. Holmes and Watson moved towards the laptop as the video showing the battered and bruised Mr Arnold appeared on the screen. Lestrade knew every second of the video, having watched it a dozen times by this stage, so he paced around the living room behind Holmes and Watson as they watched the film for the first time, and tried not to think about smoking.

Back at Scotland Yard, Donovan slammed down the receiver of her desk phone and grabbed a handful of her flesh at the nape of her neck, squeezing the tenseness out of her muscles, before turning her attention back to her computer screen and the reports that had come in from the house to house enquiries around Stephen Arnold's flat, and the statements from Arnold's colleagues at Carter &amp; Wright. She'd already read them twice before, but Lestrade had asked the whole team to go through everything again with a fine tooth comb and a fresh eye.

"Sarge!"

One of the junior members of the team yelled out from the other side of the open plan office. Donovan immediately left her desk and marched over to the constable who'd called to her. As she arrived she glanced at his desk, it had about the same amount of paper scattered across it as her own. She also noticed two empty mugs with coffee dregs at the bottom of both and the remains of a half-eaten sandwich lying in its plastic container. Donovan reminded herself to keep an eye on the time, and to make sure this officer went home soon.

"What is it?" she said with some weariness in her voice.

"Another message Sergeant"

The constable pointed at the email inbox on his screen. Donovan saw the message had been sent to the generic Scotland Yard email address, which had been filtered to alert Lestrade's team if any other video messages were sent through from unknown and unverified sources similar to the initial email from the kidnappers. This email fell in to that category, but had been immediately patched through to Lestrade's team despite this filter due to the particular message in the Subject line "Hello from Mr Arnold."

"Shall I can the Inspector?" said the constable, reaching for his desk phone.

"No, let's see the message," said Donovan, suddenly feeling more alert.

Back in Arnold's flat the first video message came to an end. Holmes walked over to the window again, his features expressionless. Watson rubbed the fingertips of his right hand across his forehead a couple of times. John's mind flashed back to the image of the bloodied human tied to the chair in some dark room somewhere, and he felt agitated.

"They didn't ask for a ransom," he said, looking at Holmes, "perhaps that'll come with the next message."

"Our tech boys are tracing the IP address, but it's been bounced across various sites in Europe, so he could be held in any number of places," sighed Lestrade.

"Sherlock?" said Watson, who noticed his friend was being surprisingly still and quiet.

"What's in a name?" said the great detective in a soft voice.

"What?" said Lestrade, stepping towards Holmes.

Lestrade's mobile phone trilled out a jolly tune. He retrieved it from his pocket, glanced at the screen, and then held it to his ear.

"Donovan. What?! Send it through to me I've got my laptop here."

Lestrade jabbed a thumb at his phone, ending the call, and shoved the mobile in his pocket as he darted over to his laptop. He accessed his email messages, waited about thirty seconds, and then clicked on the link that Donovan had emailed urgently through to him. Lestrade opened up the link to another video message. The three men stood in front of the screen as the images flickered to life.

Mr Stephen Arnold was in an even more decrepit state than the in last film. He sat slumped in a chair, bound to it with tight rope around his chest, his arms pulled back and secured behind him. His shirt and face were filthy and still covered in blood. The gauze at the side of his head covering his ear wound was blood soaked and dirty. He appeared to be very weak, his eyes barely able to remain open, and his breathing was laboured.

"Please, help me…please."

The rasping voice from the injured man made Watson grip his hands into fists in helplessness.

The room around Arnold was dark, with muffled noises heard off camera. Watson could only assume the unseen threat of more violence against him was forcing the man to speak the prepared statement of his kidnappers.

"Take five million pounds to the British Museum tomorrow at 2pm," said Arnold in a small reed like voice. He gulped in another ragged breath before continuing, "leave the money in a black bin liner by…no, I won't, I won't!"

Sherlock, Watson and Lestrade watched in rapt attention as the beaten man on the screen summoned up his remaining strength. He sat as straight as his beaten body would allow and he raised his chin, directing his gaze to the person behind the camera.

"No, I won't do it, kill me, I don't care, I won't do what you want, I won't," the man screamed hoarsely.

A single gunshot rang out, which jerked Arnold back in his chair. Blood began seeping from a wound high on the left hand side of his chest. Arnold screamed out in pain and his head slumped forward on to his chest. The camera image began to jerk, with Arnold appearing and disappearing from view, lights flashed across the screen, and then finally the screen went black. The video was over.

Lestrade ran his hands over his head, his palms brushing against the short strands of his hair as they ran from his forehead to the nape of his neck and then back to the top of his head again. The Inspector blew out a long breath and took a couple of paces backwards.

"Is he dead?!" said Lestrade, looking at Watson, who's own eyes were still staring at the blank laptop screen, not quite believing what he saw.

John took a step back and looked over at Sherlock. A subtle smile crept over the great detective's mouth.

Though it was still too early for most of the citizens of London to step outside of their homes that cold Saturday morning, the protestors who had been gathering at various points across London for the past 48 hours thought nothing of the hour. They began assembling on the Embankment swathed in layers of warm clothing, carrying their placards, their whistles and their voices crying out and drowning out the morning chorus of the birds. They nursed hot drinks in their gloved hands and spoke amongst themselves of their hopes for the day of protest and unity against the so-called masters of the universe. It would be the last full day of protest, the last day for the marchers to make themselves heard, as the energy conference would be over by that evening, after a five star meal in a top hotel in the Kent countryside, far away from any annoying banners or whistles.

A police helicopter hovered above the protestors, who waved at it sarcastically, its belly cameras trained down towards the street below on the growing numbers gathering for the main march which was scheduled to pass the Houses of Parliament before heading west to finish in Hyde Park. Uniformed police officers kept a dutiful, but initially distant, watch as the numbers of protestors grew by the northern bank of the Thames.

Unnoticed amongst the swelling crowds a slender figure in dark clothing and a baseball cap hovered on the fringes of the protestors, slender red tipped fingers tapping at a mobile phone.

Lestrade had walked out in to the hallway of the flat, making a call to Donovan to compare views on what they had seen on the video, making sure she'd got the tech boys involved in tracing the new link, and checking on any updates from their team. If Lestrade felt the kidnapping case was going up a blind alley before, he was now facing a possible murder investigation with no idea where the body might be located.

Watson's voice may have been slow and even but the anger in his eyes as he stared at his friend was evident.

"You think this is funny?" said John.

Sherlock seemed to ignore the import of Watson's facial expression and the tenseness in his voice. Words of instruction tumbled out of Sherlock at a pace, his eyes darted around in their sockets, and his hands made expressive gestures as he paced around the living room of Arnold's flat. He looked as if he was a man alive with excitement and enjoying himself. Sherlock clapped his hands in joy, bringing them up to his face.

"John, get back on to the recruitment firm, find out if Una Madepeam has resurfaced, or if they've heard from her since the beginning of the week. In fact, find out exactly when the last contact with her was received. Then I want you to find out about Stephen Arnold. Get a sense of the man, I want hobbies, tastes, friends, everything. Finally get on to the owner of this flat, find out how long Arnold's been here, what kind of tenant he was. I'll see you later at Baker Street."

"No, wait, hold on. Why am I doing all this? What'll you be doing?" said John, his anger giving way to frustration at the length of the shopping list Holmes was giving him.

"This case is massive John, we have a lot of ground to cover, and time is running out, at a guess I'd say we have less than 24 hours before it all ends," said Sherlock as he began to walk towards the front door to the flat.

"So we're completely ignoring the Sarah Beddington case are we, just because this one is more interesting to you?" said Watson to Holmes's back as the great detective walked away.

Holmes passed Lestrade as he was re-entering the living room.

"Give Watson access to the witness statements about Arnold," said Sherlock as he was flicking up his coat collar and passing through the open front door of the flat.

"Wait, what about Arnold? Sherlock!" Lestrade bellowed after him.

Holmes was already taking the stairs down to the ground floor two at a time. The sound of a door slamming below them announced Sherlock's absence from the building.

Watson glanced at Lestrade, and the two men shared a resigned look before they too left the flat.

As the two men trudged down the stairs to ground level, Watson's mobile trilled out a text alert. John slipped a hand in his coat pocket, grabbed his mobile and quickly accessed the text message.

"Hope all OK. BTW a tramp brought your bike back x"

Watson smiled wryly and gripped hold of his mobile. In the middle of a case, in fact two cases, Sherlock had still found the time to get one of his homeless network to return the bike he'd borrowed from Watson's front yard.

"Can I cadge a lift to the recruitment firm?" said Watson indicating to Lestrade's BMW parked at the kerb side.

"Why not. I'm getting nowhere with a kidnapping and possible murder case, I might as well start a new career as a chauffeur," said Lestrade sarcastically.

Watson chewed on a tight lipped grin as he slipped into the passenger seat of the Inspector's BMW. John felt sorry for his police colleague but also wondered if he'd have to put up with Lestrade's jibes all the way to the Yard. Perhaps a taxi might have been a better option.

Down by the Embankment the protestor's ranks had swelled over the past hour. Several of them made the joke that the police would need another helicopter at this rate to keep an eye on them all. More banners were appearing, some taking five or six people to keep them aloft. Children in their prams, union activists, old people, young students, tie-dyed hippies of indeterminate age all mingled together, their excited babbling conversations were sporadically cut through with the odd chant or booming laugh. Protestors filmed each other on their mobiles, ready to upload on to websites and social networks.

Though it was early morning, it was bright, and raised heads amongst the protestors looked up to see the sun cutting through the blanket of high thin cloud above them. With luck they hoped the sun would burn off the cloud in an hour or two, and with even more luck there would be a rise in the wintry temperatures that had hung around the city of late. The snow and ice had largely receded from the city streets, but the wind was still sharp. It was going to be a long day out in the elements for all the marchers, there was a strong and fervent wish amongst them for clear skies and sunshine to help buoy their spirits.

Uniformed police observers fed back reports on the massing crowds to their commanders, who observed the banks of screens in the control room at Scotland Yard, alert for any sudden movement or unusual formations in the gathering. A few undercover officers tried to move closer to the protestors, dressed in their clean, pressed civilian clothes, and wearing earpieces they were easily spotted by the experienced demonstrators, and pointed out to those around them.

Union representatives threaded their way through the crowd helping to lift flagging spirits with their booming chants and swaggering bonhomie, handing out flags to wave. A few darkly and poorly dressed students wandered around selling copies of the Socialist Worker, or handed out leaflets about a future march being scheduled for the late spring.

The figure in black in the baseball cap blended in with the crowd seamlessly even thought she was not one of them, but she stayed on the periphery of the main gathering, moving amongst the marchers on the fringes to pick up a leaflet and a small flag, which she tucked in the back pocket of her jeans. She paused every so often, faking a check of her mobile phone, taking imaginary photos, when in reality she was scanning the faces of the protestors as they arrived. The mystery figure also kept a subtle eye on the undercover police trying to blend in with the marchers, as her expert eye could also spot them easily. The watchers were being watched.

Sherlock stood on the roof of Barts Hospital. He had been here before, two years ago, when he had plunged to the ground in an apparent suicide attempt whilst trying to thwart the machinations of James Moriarty. Like a bird in his elevated eyrie the great detective looked out over the London skyline.

If Holmes had been a man apt to reverie and sentiment he would have recalled the desperation of his previous visit to this rooftop, or perhaps he might have waxed lyrical about the dramatic architecture of London. Holmes was not such a man. His clinical and coldly calculating eye saw the height and constituent elements of buildings, not their beauty, the grid references of and access points to streets he would need to navigate, not the life walking on them.

Sherlock knew a cascade of events was about to happen and he had to prepare for them, but he luxuriated in this brief moment of stillness and quiet, allowing his mind to run through the myriad of connections it had already made in the course of this case, finessing and finalising the final pieces of the puzzle.

Holmes was satisfied he had done all he could to prepare for what was to come; any surprising actions or mistakes would be due to the emotional instability of the others involved in this unfolding drama and would have to be dealt with as and when they happened. The police would have to provide most of the back up to cover these eventualities.

At least one person might die by the end of today; a death that could easily be prevented with one phone call. But Holmes was not going to make that call. Sherlock's focus was elsewhere.

Sherlock's only concern was the mysterious woman behind it all, the one who had engineered and overseen Sarah Beddington's "disappearance" and Arnold's apparent kidnapping. This mysterious female facilitator had provided Holmes with such an interesting diversion, one that had challenged his brain more than any other in a long time and he wanted to make sure he had a chance to further investigate such a worthy adversary. By making a phone call to save a life he would be terminating any possibility of this adversary hanging around for the denouement of her murderous plan. There was no debate in Sherlock's mind, no tug of conscience; he existed in a world of pure self-interest and intellectual stimulus.

Sherlock took in a deep breath of cold morning air, before descending from the roof of Barts hospital, via the lab, to put the final stages of his plan into action. He quickened his pace knowing that time was running out, but the blood pumping through his veins at speed wasn't only doing so due to his increased physical exertions….he was excited.

**Chapter Eight**

Sherlock Holmes disappeared for several hours, leaving John Watson to complete a long list of tasks, and to wonder about his friend's whereabouts in between completing them. Watson knew that Holmes's sudden and prolonged disappearing acts were not unusual, and often involved the great detective disguising himself on "stake outs" at all hours of the day and night, but John felt a growing sense of unease as the hours ticked by and there was no sign of, or word from Sherlock.

Watson knew that he could easily pick up his mobile phone and dial Mycroft's number, but he also knew that there would have to be a realistic life-threatening need to do this. John knew that if he made the call to Holmes senior without evident reason, he was risking a mighty consequence. John wasn't sure what was worse, risking the wrath of Mycroft for diverting his attention away from some pressing matter of state, or risking the wrath of Sherlock for running to his brother.

The "Holmes boys", as The Woman had called them, had a long and complex relationship history, one that Watson was in no way desirous of getting too involved with. John would have called their competitive need to outdo the other childish, except that the outcome of their battles could result in more than broken toys or the punishment of being banished to their rooms without pudding. Their "spats" were often highlighted against a race to save thousands of lives, or preserving state secrets.

John suddenly thought about Sarah Beddington. Sherlock had dismissed the suggestion that she may be in danger, and seemed to have ignored the original enquiry to Baker Street that had started the pair of them running to and fro across London for the past few days. Was Holmes off somewhere tidying up the Beddington case perhaps? There was obviously a link between Sarah Beddington and Stephen Arnold – the law firm that employed them – but having broken in and investigated the place, Watson was still at a loss as to the connection between it and the two missing people.

Watson scooped his mobile phone up in the palm of his hand and checked the display. There were no new messages from Holmes.

Lestrade also wondered where Sherlock Holmes had taken himself off to so suddenly, in the middle of a kidnapping and possible murder enquiry, but also resisted the temptation to call or text the great detective for fear that Holmes would construe the enquiry as one of desperation on behalf of the Metropolitan Police. Lestrade bit down the cold realisation that he was in fact desperate, flipped open a foolscap file, ploughed back into another report, and yet another fresh attempt to study the facts and events to date in the case of the kidnapped accountant Stephen Arnold.

Lestrade and his team were in effect conducting a murder investigation without proof of death, or the discovery of a body; but after having seen the recent video footage of Stephen Arnold's torture and shooting, there was only one conclusion to draw – the poor man was dead. The kidnappers had made no further demands or sent any more video messages, indicating that Arnold was no longer able to attract a ransom.

Lestrade was sure that somewhere in the reports his team had gathered there was evidence and reason behind why Arnold had been abducted and tortured. Sherlock would zoom straight in on this evidence like a laser; Lestrade's approach was more like holding up a lit match in a cave and waving it around in order to find his way. He'd get there in the end, it would just take him much longer and he'd be dependent on a bit more luck.

Molly Hooper could often be found in the laboratory or the morgue at Bart's Hospital at the weekend. Molly wasn't married to her job, although she was good at it and took pride in it, but she did have a vigorous work ethic, and having taken a few hours away from the lab on Friday afternoon she had resolved to go to work for a few hours on Saturday morning to make sure everything was in order.

Molly had already checked that her colleague Ross had sent Sherlock the test results he had asked for; she was also dropping by the lab to assuage her curiosity as to what the results had been. Although she could claim to understand very little about the case Sherlock was working on her fascination remained engaged with the man who had walked into her morgue several years ago as if he owned it, asking to experiment on one of the corpses in her care.

Now that Molly's ex fiancé Tom was no longer a part of her life, her weekends were not centred on what she would do as part of a couple; Molly was now free to do what she pleased. Tom had not been keen on Molly spending time at the lab outside of working hours and had tried to get her to be more social. Having spent most of her life on her own or with a very small circle of friends, who were studious and scientific rather than social, she always found the pressure to conform to Tom's wishes a little out of her character.

Molly had loved Tom in her way, and had liked being loved in return, but she had to admit in hindsight that their mutual long term suitability was always in doubt. He just wasn't as interesting as some men, or as exciting to be around. Molly didn't consider herself to be a thrill seeker by any stretch of the imagination, but she knew that during the past few years the times she had felt more alive than at any time in her life were the times that she had been helping Sherlock solve his cases.

As Molly entered the lab and peeled off the layers of scarf, coat and cardigan that had protected her against the last blast of the winter weather, she caught sight of the folded paper on her computer terminal. As she picked it up and read the message her face flushed pink. The feeling coursing through her yet again confirmed the sound reasoning behind her decision to part from Tom – he had never made her feel like this.

The recruitment firm was open for a few hours every Saturday morning but operated with a skeleton crew of staff; the Manager John had previously spoken to was heading out of his office cubicle carrying a large bag of golf clubs as Watson arrived. Though still keen to be as useful as possible with the investigation, he was displaying obvious signs of wanting to get away from the office as soon as possible. Watson suggested he accompany the man down to his car on the street below and they talk as they walked; a suggestion that was positively, and immediately, seized upon.

The only item of note to add from their last interview was that the recruitment agent who Watson hadn't been able to talk to on his last visit, Una Madepeam, had still not made an appearance in the office. This wasn't particularly unusual as she had been hired on something of an ad hoc basis and her visits to the office to date had been unscheduled and of indeterminate lengths. The Manager had decided however to make contact with her after the weekend to check all was OK with her, and to get her to take on a couple of their more "difficult" clients. Una's success rate with placing people in excellent positions in blue chip companies was the best, even amongst his experienced team.

The Manager had emailed Una to let her know that Dr Watson had wanted to talk to her about Sarah Beddington, and had provided Watson's contact details. He was a little surprised when Watson confirmed she had not been in touch. According to the Manager she was normally reliable and efficient, to a degree not seen in the rest of his regular full-time staff. The Manager had checked through everything after Watson had left his office last time and her case files and paperwork were all in order. He confirmed that the last contact with Una Madepeam had been on Thursday; the day that Hannah Croft had visited Baker Street to tell Holmes and Watson about Sarah Beddington going missing. She had phoned in to the recruitment firm and left a message to say she was feeling poorly and wouldn't be in for a couple of days.

In the taxi heading back to Baker Street Watson made a few brief notes in his trusty moleskin notebook. As he wrote down Una Madepeam's name, a sudden thought occurred to him and his pen hovered over the letters that he had written down. Sherlock was right, her name was unusual. Within a minute, and over a day later than his friend, he realised the truth of the anagram of the mystery woman's name. Una Madepeam was A Made Up Name.

Another thought then occurred to Watson. Was the woman who had been following Holmes and himself the past couple of days the same woman who had been working under false pretences at the recruitment firm? The same woman who had arranged for Sarah Beddington to get the job at Carter &amp; Wright? John was certain his assumption was right, but he was still no further forward in understanding what was going on or why this mystery woman had gone to such lengths.

Watson took the taxi straight to Scotland Yard for the second and third items on Holmes's list, to find out more about the kidnapped accountant Stephen Arnold, and how long he'd been living in his flat. Ignoring the dour expression of his Sergeant, Lestrade steered Watson towards his office and plonked the case files bearing copies of the witness statements down in front of the doctor. Lestrade sat in his desk chair and leant forward knitting his fingers together.

"Where's Sherlock?" said the Inspector.

"No idea," said Watson resignedly as he flipped open the first case file and started reading.

Both men knew that the difference in cracking this case quickly, or having it drag on for days or weeks, lay in the brain of the man who was currently hiding somewhere in the great Metropolis, and that neither of them were a substitute for his skills or experience. For the time being however they were going to have to rely on each other until the great detective decided to show his face.

Lestrade went about his business and was in and out of his office for the next two hours, taking phone calls, talking to his team, and looking at reports on his computer, as Watson diligently read through every scrap of paper in the pile of reports Lestrade had given him access to. John scribbled away in his trusty notebook so that he would have memory aids to salient points mentioned in the reports, so he could give Sherlock an accurate resume of Arnold's life when they met up again. Watson dipped a hand into his trouser pocket and brought out his mobile phone. There was still no word from Holmes.

Watson was getting towards the end of the last file when Lestrade entered his office and placed a take away coffee carton and a packaged sandwich in front of him. Watson's parched and empty stomach signalled its thanks by rumbling, and he slumped back in the chair opposite Lestrade as the Inspector stood on the opposite side of the desk. The Inspector sipped at his own take away coffee, and fished a triangular sandwich container out of his overcoat pocket and dropped it on his desk, before shrugging out of the coat and slinging it across the back of his chair.

"Thanks," said Watson.

"Well, did you find anything we missed?" said Lestrade rather archly as he sat in his chair.

Watson rubbed a hand across the back of his neck and arched his back muscles before picking up the sandwich container, wrestling with the packaging for a few seconds. John took a large bite out of the sandwich and moved his head gently from side to side, replying to Lestrade.

"I've been through everything half a dozen times, we re-interviewed some of the Carter &amp; Wright staff, there's no criminal record, no dodgy dealings at work, there's nothing odd with his bank account or his background history. His landlord had nothing but good things to say about him mainly because he paid up on time and was the only tenant that didn't argue about the rent increases. Everyone we've spoken to says he was just a normal bloke. So why in god's name would someone want to kidnap and possibly murder him?" said Lestrade, his voice rising to a shout as he worked his way through the course of events.

"I don't know, but I'm sure it's got something to do with the other case that Sherlock's working on, the missing PA from Carter &amp; Wright," said John through a mouthful of chewed sandwich.

"What missing PA?" said Lestrade reaching for the files in front of Watson, "no-one's mentioned a missing PA."

"Well she's technically not started work there, someone turned up pretending to be her, then disappeared," said Watson finishing the last bite of the sandwich.

"Eh?" Lestrade gave Watson and incredulous stare from across the desk.

"Look, you've shown me yours…" said Watson pointing at the pile of reports.

Watson took a long sip of the take away coffee, and felt a warming sensation travelling down towards his core. The hot drink, along with the sandwich, restored his equilibrium enough that he felt able to relay all of the events of the past few days to Lestrade, right from the moment that the head hunter's client, Mrs Hannah Croft, had stepped across the threshold of 221B Baker Street.

"So Sherlock's working on a connection between Sarah Beddington's disappearance and Stephen Arnold's kidnapping?" said Lestrade at the end of Watson's tale.

"Not exactly Inspector, I think you'll find that both events haven't actually happened," said Sherlock Holmes as he stepped into the room.

The majority of the protestors had all gathered and had formed up into a long snake like trail of people which took up one whole side of the road. They enthusiastically waved banners and shouted slogans or blew on whistles as they made their way along one side of the road running the length of the Embankment. Two helicopters now hovered above them monitoring their progress, and police officers, both plain clothed and uniformed, walked amongst and alongside the protestors as they made their slow progress towards the Houses of Parliament, before heading towards Hyde Park.

By the time that Sherlock Holmes had made his dramatic re-appearance at Scotland Yard, the protesters were clustered around a stage in the park listening to speeches raging against the vagaries of unchecked capitalism, clapping and cheering sympathetic politicians, and joining in with the cacophony of whistleblowing and chanting stirred up by activists and union organisers. Television film crews dipped in and out of the crowds getting first person accounts of the reasoning behind the march for the early evening news.

The figure in black wearing the baseball cap had left and re-joined the march at two points during its progress across west London. The eyes of the mystery figure kept close watch on the locality of uniformed police officers, scanning the crowd for their police colleagues in disguise, whilst fingers tapped out occasional messages into a mobile phone. Having assured herself that she was still not being observed, she began to walk away from the stage and the crowds in Hyde Park, heading in the direction of Marble Arch.

The police were expecting the protestors to disassemble within the hour as the scheduled speeches were due to end imminently. All protests in the London area were required to announce their schedules and intentions to the Metropolitan Police for fear of being denied the right to protest and exercise their right of assembly, due to concerns for public safety and security. The police didn't mind people ranting and raving on the streets of the capital as long as they did it to time and kept to the designated area.

What the figure in black in the baseball cap knew, but the police did not know, was that there was going to be an unscheduled addition to the day of protest. As part of her extensive and intricate plans the mystery woman had organised for a core group of the protestors to embark on an extra march back towards central London that would keep the police, and hopefully Sherlock Holmes, busy whilst the mission entered its final phase.

Fingers tapped across her mobile phone, and she sent the following text:

"Stage Five is Go."

Sherlock's mobile sounded a text alert. He retrieved the device from his overcoat pocket and quickly accessed the text.

"Lestrade we're going to need armed officers, access to all CCTV images of west and central London, including data from the helicopters currently flying over the protestors in Hyde Park, and a lock down of all streets surrounding the Ambassador Hotel in Mayfair," said Holmes.

"Wait, wait, what's happening?" said Lestrade, flustered and bewildered by Sherlock's sudden appearance and his list of demands.

"You can ask me all your inane questions on the way. Come on if we're lucky we might just catch him in the act," said Holmes as he dashed out of the office and strode across the open plan office area, heading for the stairwell. Watson stood up and immediately headed in the same direction as his friend.

"Catch who….Holmes!" said Lestrade as he grabbed his coat off of the back of his chair and dashed out of his office, struggling into his overcoat as he went.

Lestrade almost knocked over Sergeant Donovan, who had heard the commotion on the other side of the open plan office, and was approaching her boss's office.

"Donovan, I need armed back up at the Ambassador Hotel in Mayfair and the streets around it locked down, get down to the control unit, I need you to monitor CCTV and air support images of the protesters in Hyde Park. Call me when you get there." Lestrade was pounding across the office towards the stairwell as he spoke to Donovan and was almost breathless by the end of his list of demands.

"What? Why?" said Donovan.

"Just do it!" barked Lestrade before he disappeared down the stairwell heading after Holmes and Watson.

On street level, on the paved area outside the entrance to New Scotland Yard Lestrade finally caught up with Holmes and Watson. Holmes held up a leather gloved hand to signal to a black taxi making its way towards them on the street adjacent to the forecourt.

"My car's parked out back," panted Lestrade, hooking a thumb in the opposite direction.

"The situation calls for enhanced driving skills at high speeds and an innate knowledge of London streets," said Sherlock as the taxi screeched to a halt alongside the three men.

"And a taxi driver trumps a policeman I suppose?" said Lestrade with a note of wounded sarcasm in his voice.

"No, but a taxi driven by a former getaway driver does, in you get Inspector," said Sherlock holding open the rear passenger and beckoning him inside with a flourish of his hand.

"Getaway driver?" said Watson to Sid Johnson, who turned to look out of the half-opened driver's side window.

"We all had to start somewhere," said Sid.

The three men had barely sat in their seats before Sid powered the vehicle forward, and executed a 360 degree turn in one sweeping motion. There was no need for a warning to her passengers to hold tight, as a quick glance in the rear view mirror confirmed to Sid that all three men were busily securing their seat belts with focussed application.

The increasing speed in which the taxi travelled through the streets of London that Saturday afternoon exponentially equalled the volume of questions that mounted up in Watson and Lestrade's minds as Sid Johnson weaved through traffic in the race to reach the Ambassador Hotel. Holmes demeanour appeared calm, although Watson detected a tensing of his high cheek bones, and could see his eyes were blazing with animation.

The taxi lurched violently as Sid took a corner at some speed, causing her passengers to grip on to the hand rails in the back of the vehicle.

"Oi what's the rush!" yelled Lestrade as he righted himself on the smooth leather of the back seat.

"Time is against us. We've been chasing up blind alleys like fools. Sid go left!" barked Holmes.

"I am going left! Stop back seat driving!" yelled Sid in reply, halfway through the manoeuvre in question.

Watson tried to keep his voice as even as possible.

"Sherlock, what's going on?"

"If I'm right, and I'm pretty sure I am, and if we can get there in time in one piece (_Sherlock arched an eyebrow_ _towards the back of their driver's head_), we might be able to stop Mr Stephen Arnold from committing a murder," said Holmes, quickly checking his wristwatch.

"The murdered kidnap victim?" said Watson, who leant forward on the pull down seat behind the driver to look questioningly at Holmes sitting opposite him on the back seat.

"He's neither dead nor has he been held against his will Watson. He is however desperate and is focussed on vengeance, so much so that he felt impelled to join forces with one of the most dangerous, and interesting, criminals I've come across in a while. Sid…"

"If you tell me to take a right I swear I'll punch you in the face!" said Sid as she expertly took a sharp right turn at speed. The sound of car horns blasted out as the taxi swung across two lanes of traffic.

"Bloody Hell!" yelled Lestrade from the back seat.

Stephen Arnold zipped up his black leather jacket and slipped a pair of dark blue leather gloves over his hands, warding off the effects of the chill wind blowing across London. Having disembarked from the Eurostar train at St Pancras thirty minutes ago he had made his way to the public luggage lockers at the station and retrieved a small holdall from locker 32; the key to which had been nestling in his pocket for the last week.

Outside the station he gave a small smile, the traffic was backed up along the Euston Road, with the roads feeding in to this great artery similarly busy. Things were going according to plan. Unlike the other passengers who had recently disembarked from Paris he shunned the queue waiting for a taxi outside of the station, and began briskly strolling in the direction of Great Portland Street. He gripped on to the holdall as he broke into a jog.

The speeches had ended in Hyde Park to a tumult of cheering and applause and some of the protestors had begun to move off towards the tube stations and bus stops in the area. A large group however, just to the right of the stage, still seemed to be enervated and began chanting and waving their banners. A police officer standing twenty yards away reached for his radio as the chanting became louder and he noticed more protestors joining the group by the stage. The group began to move in the direction of Marble Arch.

"Control this is PC1254, I think we might have a problem," said the young officer.

Lestrade's mobile began trilling a ringtone as Sid throttled the taxi and sped down a side street that led towards Hyde Park.

"Donovan, what've you got?"

"Sir, there's a core group of protestors that's broken off, looks like they are heading towards the back end of Oxford Street, they've just passed through Marble Arch," said Donovan into her mobile phone as her keen eyes scanned the bank of TV screens showing CCTV and aerial images of the area around Hyde Park.

"Is the area around the Ambassador Hotel locked down?" said the Inspector gripping tightly to the hand rail in the back of the speeding taxi.

"Yeah, there's an armed response team at the end of Passmore Street and another one further down near Marshall Street. What are we looking for?" said an exasperated Donovan.

"Give the response teams a description of Stephen Arnold. I want to know the second they see him," said Lestrade, cutting off the call to Donovan before she had the chance to voice her incredulity at the request.

"The streets around the hotel are locked down, armed response in place," said Lestrade to Holmes.

"Good. Tell the teams to stay well back from the hotel. Arnold's been waiting a long time for this, but if he sees them he might bolt," said Sherlock.

"Waiting a long time for what?" said Watson.

"And what's this got to do with the missing PA John told me about?" said Lestrade.

"Why are we slowing down?" said Sherlock, ignoring the questions of both men and slipping out of his seatbelt to lean forward towards the driver.

Sid Johnson waved a hand in the direction of the windscreen.

"It's a taxi not an aeroplane, I can't fly over a traffic jam!" yelled Sid from the driver's seat. "Hold on, I'm going off piste."

Sid steered the taxi up on to the pavement and sent Sherlock tumbling backwards on to Lestrade in the back of the taxi. Pedestrians scattered like scurrying rats as they fled from the vehicle barrelling along in front of the shops on Oxford Street. Up ahead Holmes could see the protestors, several hundred strong, as they weaved their way through the build up of traffic, angry car and van drivers hooting their horns at the protestors and shouting at them as they blocked the street.

"They're turning left up ahead," shouted Watson as he craned his head around to look through the windscreen.

"Then I guess I'm going left too!" replied Sid loudly as she wrenched the steering wheel and almost took out a fruit and veg stall on the pavement in front of her.

After the manouvre the taxi screeched to a sudden halt, straining the seatbelts holding Watson and Lestrade in their positions, and forcing Sherlock to grip on the handrail nearest him with both hands to prevent him from being hurled at Watson.

There was no more pavement and no more road to negotiate. Sid had managed to stop the taxi with inches to spare before a huge hole in the pavement with water cascading from it. Two vans from the local water board were parked to the right of the hole, with workers holding pneumatic drills pummelling away at the concrete slabs around the gaping chasm in the street.

Sherlock reacted the quickest of all of them, opening the rear door of the taxi and yelling at them all to follow him as he ran around the urban water feature and headed north away from Oxford Street, the protestors heading in the same direction a parallel street down from their location.

The slim woman in black in the baseball cap was stood outside a shop watching the splinter group of protestors as they made their way along Oxford Street heading east. She had turned to see the commotion caused by the taxi careening along the pavement and had quickly run to join the rear of the marching protestors as they turned left, slipping amidst their ranks. She slipped her hand into her pocket, withdrew her mobile phone, and slipped off her black leather glove. Her red tipped nails tapped out a short text before pressing the "Send" button, then head down, she sped up and broke into a run heading north, charging ahead of the main protest group.

Stephen Arnold reached into his pocket at the sound of his text alert tone and read the message displayed on his mobile phone screen:

"Game Over in 45mins"

Arnold instantly understood the importance of the message. He was against the clock now, and was being chased. There was every chance he wouldn't get away after he'd committed the act he'd trained for, and he was always resigned to that, but there was now the possibility that he may not have enough time left to complete his mission, and that would not be tolerated in his mind. He started running.

**Chapter Nine**

It felt like the whole world was converging on the Ambassador Hotel. It was as if it had become the event horizon for all the actors involved in the drama that unfolded on that Saturday afternoon, pulling them all towards its dark fixed centre of gravity; the end of everything.

Sherlock, Watson, Lestrade and Sid Johnson were running north from Oxford Street towards the hotel after being forced to ditch their taxi. Twenty police officers, including two teams of armed response officers were in position on the streets surrounding the hotel, eyes trained on the front entrance and the rear exit, plus the two main streets leading to the hotel, eyes trained to spot Stephen Arnold. The officers had all been sent an image of Arnold from his Carter &amp; Wright staff ID – a pale man in a dark grey suit and tie, with light brown hair, wearing glasses with thin wire rims, his expression vacant and almost bored.

In Scotland Yard's basement control room Donovan was watching images from CCTV and aerial recognisance from the area around the Ambassador Hotel on a bank of wall-mounted screens. She could see that the splinter group of marching protestors were only two streets away from the Ambassador, although whether the hotel was their intended destination was uncertain. Donovan had, with some amusement, been watching the progress of her boss as he ran towards the hotel after exiting the taxi. Knowing Lestrade's general level of fitness she knew he wouldn't be able to keep up with Holmes at that speed for much longer.

Stephen Arnold, with newly dyed black hair, his skin covered in fake tan, minus his glasses, but now sporting a small moustache to further disguise his features, was driving a gleaming black Lexus down the ramp leading to the car park under the Ambassador hotel. Arnold had picked up the car four streets away, his accomplice having parked it there over a day ago, the keys taped to the inside of the driver's side wheel arch. The car had been stopped by an SO19 armed police officer disguised as a hotel security guard at the entrance to the car park ramp but the driver didn't resemble the wanted man, and he spoke with a foreign accent. The hotel receptionist had confirmed the driver's credentials and description in a quick phone call check. The undercover officer allowed the car to pass down into the underground car park and had reported the incident to his Inspector by radio – just a chauffeur, not Arnold.

The woman in black, who had been mingling with the protestors less than ten minutes ago, slipped in to the back of the block of exclusive flats opposite the Ambassador Hotel. She nimbly and quickly climbed the stairs to the fourth floor, exited the stairwell, and walked along the corridor until she reached Flat 12; the occupants of which were currently enjoying their regular winter holiday in Dubai. She slipped into the empty flat, using a key she had cloned weeks ago, walked into the living room and stood looking out the window on to the street below and the entrance to the hotel.

Everyone was in place.

Sherlock stood in the entrance foyer to the Ambassador Hotel and caught his breath silently and slowly, not wanting to betray his gasping need to breathe to the others. He'd once been told that pain was just weakness leaving the body; and he'd never been keen on showing weakness to anyone.

Sid, Watson and Lestrade, arrived in that order a few seconds apart and had no hesitation in dragging in noisy deep lungful's of air, whilst squeezing their eyes in mild pain, and visibly displaying their distress in having had to run so fast. Watson particularly lamented his muscular and respiratory discomfort, having been able to run much further with less effort back when he was in the army. He definitely needed to get to the gym.

"Arnold's probably here already, we'll have to act fast," said Sherlock. He looked around the foyer, his keen eyes taking in a random and yet highly instructive set of facts from the décor and people in the area. He dismissed all the staff and guests milling about as inconsequential and non-related to the case.

"What's he doing here?" said Watson, who finally managed to raise himself to a standing position after having regained his regular breathing pattern whilst bent at the waist, his hands resting on his knees.

Sherlock turned to face Watson, Lestrade and Sid.

"Arnold's after a man called Victor Smolensky, a Russian national, a billionaire several times over due to his gas, oil and steel empire. Smolensky's paranoid to the point of hysterical about his own personal security, but then facing three assassination attempts will probably do that to you. He hasn't left his compound in Monaco for several years. Arnold's daughter was an engineer in one of Smolensky's companies. She died after attending an energy conference nearly five years ago in Belarus," said Sherlock.

"I'm assuming not of natural causes," said Watson gravely.

"Alcohol poisoning and massive drug overdose was on the police report, coroner agreed, an open and shut case, tragic accident, file closed for everyone; except her father that is. He refused to accept the investigation findings, tried to kick up a fuss in the press, and asked the British government for help to get the case re-opened. He spent a year focussing every resource he had on getting justice for his daughter, convinced she had been murdered. Then he promptly disappeared. As did Smolensky who retreated to his fortified compound in France," said Sherlock, reeling off the facts of the case in a torrent of words as he paced about, eyes scanning the foyer.

"I know it was a few years back, but it's not ringing a bell," said Watson.

"It wouldn't do. He wasn't going by the name Stephen Arnold at the time. The man who is hunting down Victor Smolensky re-emerged as Stephen Arnold about four years ago. He'd sought out the services of someone he believed could help him get revenge for his daughter's death and as part of the plan he had to assume another name, another life," Sherlock walked over to Watson and stood inches from him, "Oh the beauty of that plan John, the time and the patience it took, it's almost a crime to see its end."

"What's Smolensky doing travelling to the UK if he's scared for his life?" said Lestrade cutting through Holmes's reverie.

"The energy conference?" said Watson expectantly looking at Holmes.

"Precisely. Smolensky is at the heart of a massive east European energy consortium. They can't finish the negotiations and sign the contract off without him being present, so it meant he had to leave his compound and travel to London. But he's only here for 24 hours. He's booked on a private jet out of Biggin Hill airfield this evening. Arnold's been waiting years for this opportunity, for Smolensky to be away from Monaco, he has to act now no matter what the cost. He knows he may not get another chance like this."

"Did Smolensky do it? Kill Arnold's daughter?" said Lestrade.

"That doesn't matter. What does matter is catching Arnold. What Arnold knows about his accomplice in all this is far more important than petty vengeance," said Sherlock.

Watson and Sid exchanged a quick glance of recognition. They'd both had experience of working alongside Holmes and knew how cold and disinterested he could be when human emotions were a factor in a case. It didn't surprise them to hear Sherlock talk this way, but nevertheless it still sounded harsh to their ears.

"Well it sounds like it matters to Arnold," said Lestrade, an incredulous look on his face.

"What floor is Smolensky on?" said Sid sharply, trying to steer the conversation in a more practical direction.

"He's booked himself in to multiple rooms in three different hotels in London, all under assumed names. He sees it as the best way to protect himself from another assassination attempt or possible kidnapping. Its cunning, if a bit expensive, but a billionaire's not going to worry about that," said Sherlock.

"How do you know he's in this one?" said Watson perplexed.

"Through interpretation of a series of clearly obvious signs coupled with extensive investigative reasoning," said Holmes in a superior tone.

"Hold on, that's where you've been all morning, you've been checking out all the hotels in the area haven't you?" said Watson.

"If you needed help with legwork you only had to ask Sherlock," said Lestrade in an amused tone.

Sherlock drew himself up to his full height, a haughty look on his face.

"We're wasting time. I've narrowed it down to this hotel, but there are at least three rooms Smolensky could be staying in 102, 301 and 424. Lestrade get a description of Arnold out to your officers. He's got two ears by the way, the one that was sent in the post came from a corpse in an Oxfordshire morgue," Sherlock informed them, recalling the text message he'd received from Molly earlier, in reply to the note he'd left her at Barts lab.

"Split up, take a room each, I'll…" Sherlock didn't get to finish his sentence as his mobile phone began to trill out a ringtone. He slipped a hand in his inside coat pocket, brought out the phone, and held the ringing device in his palm, his arm slightly outstretched as if he was offering the phone to one of the others. Holmes looked at the screen.

"It's her isn't it," said Watson.

Sherlock bent his arm, bringing the phone slowly up towards his head.

"Go!" hissed Sherlock as he connected the call with his thumb and rested the mobile phone against his ear.

"Hello," said Holmes into the mobile.

Watson, Sid and Lestrade raced for the entrance to the stairwell on the far side of the foyer.

Sherlock instinctively knew who was calling him. He slowly walked towards the front of the hotel. The glass doors smoothly glided open and he emerged in to the cold air of the grand, marble entrance way.

"Mr Holmes, you of all people wouldn't stop a man from getting justice would you?" purred the woman's voice at the end of the phone line, a note of admonishment in her tone.

"I think you'll find its vengeance not justice he's after," Sherlock coolly replied. Holmes didn't move his head but his eager eyes scanned left and right outside the hotel for any sign of Arnold's accomplice. He knew she was in the area, and that she could see him; she had to be close.

"Semantics," said the woman.

"And what job title do you give yourself to salve your conscience as an accomplice to murder?" said Sherlock slowly, his attention fixed on the building opposite the hotel.

"I'm simply a good facilitator Mr Holmes," said the woman, as she bent to look through her high powered binocular lens standing on its tripod. She focussed the lens at the tall figure of Holmes holding his mobile to his ear as he stood at the top of the entrance steps to the hotel.

"Facilitator? How innocuous sounding a word. It doesn't quite cover your skill set and obvious enthusiasm for your job does it?" said Sherlock, his eyes glancing up at the building across the street. She could be positioned high; vantage was important, but she wouldn't be so high as to make a quick getaway an impossibility; perhaps the third or fourth floor, with a window overlooking the street?

"Are you trying to flatter me?" said the woman in a humorous tone.

"I could ask the same. It's obviously a busy day and yet you find the time to give me a call," said Sherlock silkily.

"Touché. You're right, as always. Things to do, places to be," said the woman, her tone clipped and business-like, "Goodbye Mr Holmes. Do try and stay out my way."

"Wait…" said Sherlock but the call had been terminated before he finished uttering the word. He dropped his hand holding the mobile to his side, and glanced once more at the building opposite the hotel, before turning on his heel and racing back through the foyer towards the stairwell.

Arnold had planned meticulously for this moment with the help of the Facilitator, and he was ready for it. Blood pounded through his veins and in his ears, he found his breathing had quickened, and he could feel sweat forming at various pressure points on his body. She had prepared him for this physiological reaction, but she could not teach him any psychological tricks to prevent it from happening.

Arnold's emotions, his raw anger and his intimate desire for justice for his child had driven him these past few years, and it was these emotions, this burning fuel, that would fire him through the last and most important stage of his mission. The Facilitator had drilled the logistics of his mission into him, she had trained him through scenario after scenario, but at the end of the day he had to "feel" the last stage or else his reasoning might prevent him from ending the life of the man who had destroyed his child. To take a life consciously, calculatedly, was no easy feat and should never be attempted lightly.

Arnold had parked the Lexus and made his way through the basement of the hotel to the staff room, his holdall slung across his shoulder. He quickly changed into the clothes inside the holdall. He stopped by a mirror in the staff changing area to check his appearance, and breathed deeply a couple of times. Arnold was now wearing a white shirt, black tie, and a charcoal grey suit. He retrieved a pen-like item from the holdall and slipped it into the inside pocket of his suit jacket before dumping the bag in a nearby bin.

Arnold exited the room and walked along the cool concrete hallway in the basement of the hotel. There was one final stop to make before he could meet his destiny. Arnold had no idea whether he would emerge from this hotel dead or alive. All he was certain of was that Smolensky would never see another dawn.

Arnold slipped a hand into his trouser pocket and took out a small photo, folded and ripped at the top right edge, and held it up to his face. As he looked at the image of the smiling, blonde young woman in the photo, his heart pounded in his chest and his throat grew dry. Arnold brought the photo up to his lips and he kissed it gently, before slipping the re-folded photo back into his trouser pocket.

Arnold headed along the basement corridor, and turned left at the end of the hallway towards the service lift.

Being the most agile of the group Sid had elected to race up to the fourth floor and check out Room 424. Watson chose 301, which left a grateful Lestrade, who had barely caught his breath after their recent running session, to investigate Room 102 on the first floor.

After taking the stairs up to the fourth floor two at a time, Sid paused for a few seconds just inside the door leading on to the corridor to regulate her breathing. She gently opened the door a crack and checked one side of the corridor, then opening the door a little wider checked out the other end of the corridor. It was empty. Sid stepped into the corridor and saw that the door to 420 faced her; she glanced to her right and saw 422. Room 424 was no more than twenty feet away.

In the space of a minute Sid had detected no extra security precautions on this floor, there was a small CCTV camera right at the end of the hall, and one just above the door leading to the stairwell. The corridor was quiet, with no sign of posted security. If the hallway had been monitored she would have been approached by now. Sid walked forward towards the door to Room 424.

Watson didn't quite have the strength to take all the stairs two at a time, but made an effort to do so on the last flight before he reached the third floor. He slowly opened the stairwell door on that level and peered out into the hallway. Seeing that the first room number across the hall from his position was an even number, he reasoned that the odd numbers would be on his side of the corridor. Watson stepped out into the hallway and headed to the left.

John was about halfway down the corridor, just passing room 307, when a man in a suit appeared at the end of the hallway. Watson slowed his pace. The man mirrored the action, and then slowly reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. Watson stopped walking and gulped. The man slowly pulled out the key card of his room, stopped before Room 304, slipped the key card into the lock, and entered the room. Watson breathed out a small sigh of relief and carried on walking towards the end of the corridor and Room 301.

Lestrade was on a phone call to Donovan inside the stairwell, and had not progressed far up the stairs. Donovan was highly sceptical of Sherlock's news about Arnold and the fact that he may be alive and running about a west London hotel trying to kill someone. Even if he was in London, the area around the hotel was locked down, so he'd be a fool to try anything. Lestrade gave Donovan the name of Victor Smolensky. A quick search on the internet verified that Holmes had been telling the truth about the paranoid billionaire.

"Hold on, the protestors are changing direction," said Donovan looking at the bank of screens before her, "they're heading straight for you."

Whilst his colleagues were using their bodies to propel themselves through the rush of unfolding events, dashing about the hotel looking for Smolensky, Holmes was allowing only his mind to race. Sherlock stood still and calm just beyond the last flight of steps in the cool concrete stairwell on the basement floor. His mind ran through several different scenarios, trying to figure out and attempt to get ahead of the plans made by the Facilitator, working through what was possible, what was improbable, and what was the most likely outcome of Arnold's murderous intent.

Holmes opened the stairwell door that lead into the basement, and stepped into the corridor. He knew he wasn't far behind Arnold, the question remained – how far was the Facilitator behind Holmes?

Having been unable to find a housekeeper up on the third floor, Watson stood outside Room 301 and ran a couple of quick scenarios through his mind, before he thumped on the door with his fist. There was no response. Watson placed an ear to the door, straining to hear any movement from within the room. John then stepped back a pace or two, lifted his right leg and sent his booted foot crashing towards the wooden door, which flew open with such violence it slammed into the wall running adjacent to the doorframe and flung back towards Watson who held out a hand to deflect the door from hitting him in the face.

"Anyone home?" said Watson innocently.

A small room reserved for the security staff was to the left of the service lift in the basement of the Ambassador Hotel. Containing a table, a few chairs, a battered leather sofa, a television and a phone, it was largely used by the security team in order to take an unscheduled forty winks during their long, boring shifts.

At this present moment it was empty of security staff. The sole occupant of the room, a guest's chauffeur, was watching an early evening comedy programme. Arnold slowed his pace as he passed the room, heard the man inside laugh briefly, and then passed on along the corridor to a small walk-in linen cupboard. Arnold checked his mobile phone for the time, and slipped inside the small room lined floor to ceiling with shelves of bedding and towels.

The protestors had turned west briefly, and then south, and were now making their noisy way along the street that lead to the entrance of the Ambassador Hotel. As they approached the front of the hotel, the Facilitator, now dressed in the polyester trouser suit worn by the Reception staff at the Ambassador's slipped quietly through their ranks and walked up the entrance steps to the hotel.

The protestors slowed to a halt outside the hotel, blocking the whole street, and began to chant loudly, blow their whistles, and wave their flags. Several guests inside the foyer backed away from the entrance, whilst a few of the Reception staff edged towards the entrance to see what the fuss was about outside.

Amidst all the chaos, the Facilitator slipped behind the Reception desk, lifted the receiver to one of the internal phones, and pressed the button connecting the call through to Room 102.

Up in Room 102, one of Smolensky's bodyguards answered the call from Reception and listened to the message that had been left for "Mr Stravinsky", the supposed occupier of the room, and the code name Smolensky had chosen for this hotel booking.

The bodyguard quietly and swiftly relayed the message to his employer in his native Russian tongue. The message was from Biggin Hill, a weather front was coming in and he was advised to bring forward his flight home. The advice was to immediately leave the hotel.

"Call the driver," said Smolensky, "we leave now."

Smolensky's driver was the man currently enjoying the comedy programme in the basement security room. He was wondering what he should order from the hotel menu, and looking forward to watching the film following the comedy, as his services would not be required for at least another two hours. When his mobile phone trilled out he was so surprised he nearly fell off the seat he was perched on, his feet crossed and resting on the table before him. He snatched at his mobile, listened to the change in plans relayed by the bodyguard, and stammered out his agreement to being in the basement car park ready to leave in fifteen minutes.

The driver patted down his charcoal grey suit, straightened his tie, slipped his mobile into his jacket pocket, and opened the door to the small security room. As he did so he was confronted by something on the other side of the door that made him stare in momentary confusion. The man before him was dressed identically to him, had a similar tan, and a moustache. It was like looking in a mirror.

A hand suddenly punched down on the side of the driver's neck. The driver felt a sharp point enter his flesh, and he immediately grabbed for the area. Arnold pushed the driver back into the security room, kicking the door closed. As the drug from the pen-like syringe that Arnold had stabbed into the driver's neck took effect, the man stumbled into Arnold's arms, his eyelids growing heavy. Unable to cry out he groaned once and slumped against Arnold.

Arnold helped steer the driver over to the battered leather sofa where he deposited him length ways along it. Arnold slapped his face hard to check he was in a deep sleep, checked the man's pockets and took his car keys and mobile phone, and then Arnold quickly exited the room, heading for the underground car park.

Up on the fourth floor, a locked hotel door was no defence against Sid's extensive experience as London's foremost cat burglar and she easily gained access to the room. It was empty, and had obviously not been used recently. She swiftly checked the adjoining bathroom, and then exited the room, and dashed down the stairs to the third floor just as Watson was exiting Room 301.

Sid looked at the broken door jamb where the lock had been kicked away and tutted.

"Remind me to give you a few tips," she muttered.

"He has to be in 102," said Watson as he began jogging back towards the stairwell.

"Where the hell is Sherlock?" said Sid jogging after Watson.

The Facilitator stepped from behind the Reception desk at the hotel, slipped out of her suit jacket and dropped it gently on top of a pile of suitcases, balanced on a gold luggage cage in the middle of the foyer which had been abandoned by the luggage porter. The Facilitator bent down to pick up a couple of brightly coloured bags bearing the brand name of a high end retailer in the west end that were resting by the side of the luggage cart, which she then draped over her arm as she headed towards the entrance doors. As she passed the deep red leather sofa in the foyer, she scooped up a guests' discarded overcoat. As all eyes were focussed on the noise and possible threat from the people in the street outside, no-one paid her any attention.

The luggage porter and several other Reception staff had been ordered by the Front of House Manager to help defend the hotel entrance against any attempt by the protestors to enter the building. The Manager had grabbed his mobile and headed out on to the marble steps of the hotel entrance to make a frantic call to the police for help as the protestors arrived, but had been astounded to see officers in their luminous yellow jackets already on the scene, with at least one police car parked about fifty yards away on the roadway to the left of the hotel entrance.

Whilst all eyes were focussed out on the street outside, the Facilitator slipped out of the hotel entrance, down the steps, and turned right, walking a moderate pace and heading south. To all intents and purposes she looked like someone on a shopping expedition. Closer inspection would have revealed her overcoat was slightly too big for her, but no-one was watching her. The Facilitator headed away from the hotel, and away from the fall out of Arnold's mission. He was on his own now.

Arnold would be in place. The Facilitator's planning and expertise had brought him to the point where he would have the opportunity to take revenge on the man who was responsible for the death of his child. She had no doubt in her mind that Arnold was determined enough and capable of the deed after the intermittent weeks and months of preparation she had put him through over the past few years.

The unknown factor in all the planning and preparing however was six foot tall, wearing a Belstaff overcoat, and just possibly was only a couple of minutes behind Arnold at this very moment. She had prepared Arnold for everything except Sherlock Holmes.

"Yeah I can hear them," said Lestrade, aware of the muffled noise of the shouting protestors outside the hotel, "I want all eyes scanning the crowd for Arnold."

"Easier said than done boss, there are a couple of hundred people out there," said Donovan.

"Pull officers away from Hyde Park and Oxford Street if you have to, I don't want him to get away!" barked Lestrade as he ended the call and pocketed his mobile phone.

The Inspector climbed the last few steps up to the first floor and stepped out into the hallway scanning the doors as he quickened his pace towards the end of the corridor. Just as he reached Room 102 and raised his arm to knock on the door, it flew open and a man the size of the doorway glared down at him.

"Oh…right, I'm…" said Lestrade reaching in his pocket for his warrant card.

The punch landed by the man mountain sent Lestrade reeling backwards into the corridor wall behind him, where the Inspector slid to the carpet holding his face. Blood seeped through his fingers from where his nose had taken the brunt of the physical assault.

The first bodyguard quickly ushered Victor Smolensky out of the room, the billionaire shot a nervous glance at the prostrate form of Lestrade as he passed him. The first bodyguard steered his employer along the corridor towards the stairwell, the second bodyguard, carrying a suitcase in each hand, followed closely behind. The tell-tale bulges in their left chest area testament to their ability to defend their employer with deadly force if the need arose.

As Sid and Watson arrived at the stairwell door to the first floor, they could hear steps retreating down the stairs below them. Watson's mobile trilled out a text alert. He looked at the screen, it was from Holmes. Watson read out the text to Sid, which simply said;

"Basement"

Sid indicated with her head to the sound below.

"You go, I'll check on the fuzz and then catch up."

Sid slipped through the door leading into the first floor corridor, looked ahead, and began to run towards the crumbled figure she could see on the floor at the end of the corridor, blood seeping out of the space on Lestrade's face where a nose would normally reside.

Watson continued down the stairs heading towards the basement, regretting with each step at not having had the foresight to pick up his gun from 221B Baker Street. Watson had a strange feeling that before the day was out he would be more than regretting its absence from his hand.

Having incapacitated Smolensky's driver, Arnold raced to the basement car park to take the man's place and await the arrival of his "boss". Arnold dashed over to the Lexus he had driven down into the subterranean car park, and opened the driver's side door. He reached across the front seats to open the passenger side dashboard cupboard and retrieved two long pen-like devices, identical to the one he had used to drug the chauffeur. Arnold then reached under the driver's seat and pulled at the tape holding the gun, with attached silencer barrel, from underneath the seat.

Arnold pushed the gun, barrel first, into the back waistband of his trousers, and slipped a pen device in each of his trouser pockets. Suitably prepared, he reached into his jacket pocket, took out the keys he'd taken off the driver and depressed the button on the large key fob. The indicator lights flashed on a gleaming Jaguar parked over the other side of the underground car park.

Arnold ran towards the Jaguar, his heart beating fast, a thin film of sweat on his upper lip.

Smolensky and his bodyguards arrived moments after Arnold reached the Jaguar, just as Arnold was securing the chauffeur's cap on his head, the cap the real chauffeur had left on the driver's seat of the car. Arnold's disguise would successfully pass a brief glance but a closer inspection by the bodyguards would raise suspicion. Arnold glanced briefly at the first bodyguard, doffed his cap towards Smolensky, and then turned his back to them all and opened the boot of the car.

The bodyguard who had hit Lestrade escorted Smolensky to the rear left of the car, opened the passenger door, and closed it after Smolensky was seated inside. The first bodyguard then opened the front left passenger door and seated himself next to the driver's seat, slamming the door. He took his Blackberry out of his inside jacket pocket and started to focus on it.

At the same time, the second bodyguard lifted up the first suitcase to place in the boot, as Arnold took out a pen device and plunged the syringe into the man's neck from behind. The bodyguard's eyes bulged as Arnold clamped his hand over the man's face and tipped him into the boot of the car, waiting for the ten seconds to pass before unconsciousness took hold of him. The device was still sticking out of the man's neck as Arnold closed the lid of the boot.

Arnold then slipped the other pen device into his left hand, walked over to the driver's side door, opened it and in one fluid movement bent and entered the car, turning his body slightly to the left and jabbing the syringe into the neck of the bodyguard seated next to him in one violent action. The man struggled more than the other victims and tried to launch himself at his assailant, but Arnold pushed back, his right arm swinging across to hold the man back in his seat; Arnold's left hand still gripping the drugged syringe, pressed deep into the man's vein.

Arnold felt the muscular tension slowly leave the bodyguard as the powerful drug took effect.

Smolensky, who had been engrossed in reading some papers in the back seat of the car, looked up as he realised what was happening in the front seat. He looked behind him through the rear windscreen for help from his other bodyguard, but could not see him. Smolensky's fingers flailed at the clasp of his seatbelt and he forced open the passenger door to make his escape.

Arnold leapt out of the car, grabbing for the gun in his waistband. He flicked off the safety mechanism, and fired a warning shot that pinged against the wall by Smolensky's head as attempted to make for the exit ramp of the car park.

Smolensky froze on the spot as the shot rang out and echoed around the underground car park. He turned, scared and trapped, his hands raised weakly above his head, to face his duplicitous driver. A slow dawn of realisation crept over Smolensky as he saw that the man pointing a gun at him looked like his driver, but was most definitely not him. Smolensky didn't know which way to turn, whether he should run and test the aim of this assassin, try to talk and reason with him, or scream out for help.

Arnold's arm was stretched out level to the floor, the gun firmly pointed at Smolensky, as Arnold paced slowly towards him.

"I suggest you consider your next move very carefully"

The deep dulcet tones of Sherlock Holmes suddenly boomed out across the underground car park. The great detective stepped out of the shadows where he had been watching the dramatic events unfold and with his hands thrust deep into his overcoat pockets Holmes began to slowly pace towards Arnold.

Arnold and Smolensky looked at Sherlock and came to the same conclusion at the same time - the dynamics of their violent little scene had subtly shifted.

"Very carefully indeed," said Holmes.

**Chapter Ten**

"You're Sherlock Holmes," said Arnold, his arm outstretched, the gun and his face, turned towards the cowering Smolensky, his words addressing Holmes, "she said you might turn up."

"I'm the proverbial bad penny," said Sherlock slowly, as he took a pace towards Arnold.

"Don't please," said Arnold quickly as he moved his arm and turned the gun on the great detective. Smolensky, nervous and sweating, desperately looked from one man to another completely at a loss as to whether to speak or act.

Watson heard the gun shot ring out just as he arrived at the basement door leading from the hotel to the underground car park. He gently pulled at the door handle and crouching, silently edged through the gap into the semi-darkness of the car park. Watson crept over to the first vehicle to his right, and then very carefully moved on all fours along the line of cars until he was opposite Holmes's position.

From his place of concealment Watson could see Arnold's outstretched arm pointing towards Holmes. Watson eased forward into the gap between two parked cars, and risked raising his head a little. He could see another man, hands raised meekly above his head about five feet behind Holmes and slightly to his left. Holmes, hands in his pockets, seemed completely unmoved by the threat posed by the weapon in Arnold's hand.

"I should probably point out at this juncture that I have no interest interfering in your little domestic situation," said Sherlock. Holmes took his left hand out of his coat pocket and motioned it between Arnold and Smolensky.

Smolensky looked at Holmes with alarm, and Arnold shot a confused look at Sherlock. Watson's lips tightened. Holmes's wouldn't stand aside and let Arnold shoot someone in cold blood would he?

"Please, help me," Smolensky pleaded holding out his hands towards Sherlock, who remained facing Arnold, his back turned to the frightened man.

"Watson you may as well come out of hiding," said Sherlock to the air, his eyes focussed on Arnold who was starting to get unnerved by the turn of events, "the man with the gun has had some practice with it but doesn't have your years of experience coping under fire and may well fire off a random shot. Statistically there's slim chance such a shot may ricochet in your direction. The probability it may hit you is astronomically low, but let's not take the chance."

Watson puffed out a long sigh, and slowly straightened up, his open palms reflexively held out at shoulder height as he walked slowly towards Holmes, giving Arnold and his gun a wide and watchful berth.

Now Arnold had the choice of three targets.

Sid had managed to get the blood-strewn Lestrade to his feet, and the pair were now in the stairwell about to head down towards the basement when Lestrade's phone sounded a text alert. It was a message from Sherlock (sent whilst hiding in the shadows of the car park), which Lestrade read out for Sid;

"Car park exit"

Lestrade and Sid exited the stairwell at the foyer level. Whilst Lestrade tried to stem the flow of blood from his patently broken nose he made a call on his mobile to Donovan ordering her to get armed back up to move in closer to the rear of the hotel and the entrance to the car park, he informed his Sergeant he was on his way there to meet the armed team and that no-one was to make a move until he got there.

Lestrade stood on the steps of the hotel entrance and surveyed the chaos on the street before him. Traffic had started to build up in the surrounding area and the chanting and singing of the protestors was now accompanied by the sound of angry car horns. A few protestors had climbed up on to the roofs of nearby parked cars, waving their banners. Local residents had come out on the street to see what was happening, or berate any police officer they could find about the disruption to their quiet Saturday afternoon.

Sid came up behind Lestrade, and tripped down the marble stairs on to the pavement, before breaking into a run.

"Hey, where are you going?" said the Inspector to Sid as she raced along the pavement, heading south.

"Introductions!" boomed Sherlock as he clapped his hands together, "you know me of course, this is Dr John Watson, the sweaty nervous chap over there is Victor Smolensky, and the man pointing a gun at us all is Mr Michael Davis, father of Melissa Davis, who used to work for Smolensky until she was murdered; Davis thinks Smolensky did it."

The man formerly known as Arnold, allowed a brief smile to flash across his face. Smolensky's eyes bulged in sudden recognition of the surname of his would be assassin, and Watson shot a mildly concerned look at Holmes.

"So you know everything," said Davis, "she said you were good."

"What else did she say?" said Sherlock sternly, all trace of his recent sarcastic joviality gone.

Lestrade stood at the rear of the hotel, twenty feet away from the top of the access ramp leading down to the underground car park. The Inspector looked behind him at the team of armed officers waiting patiently by an unmarked Land Rover a few feet behind him, alert for the call to action. The Inspector had refused medical attention and confined himself to dabbing at his face wound with a wad of tissue as he waited. For what, he wasn't sure.

Sid ran like she was being pursued by the law. When she reached her recently abandoned taxi her lungs were bursting and her mouth dry. She wrenched open the driver's door, and scooping the keys from her jacket pocket she jumped in and fired the engine to life. Thrusting the gear stick into reverse she steered an uneven course off of the pavement and back on to the road, before nearly colliding with a bus as she floored the accelerator and sent the taxi across two lanes of traffic.

"Is that all you care about Mr Holmes, what she said, what she is?" said Arnold with a trace of bitterness in his voice. He could feel time running out on him like sand through an hourglass.

"Yes," said Sherlock.

"You don't care what he did, what he took from me?" said Arnold, the hand holding the gun pointing towards Smolensky shook slightly.

Watson could see the emotion building in Arnold, now revealed as Davis. John also knew that anyone in such a heightened state whilst in possession of a firearm was liable to random and unexpected acts which could result in any one of them being injured. Watson held his arms slightly away from his body, his palms flat and facing towards Davis in supplication.

"You don't want to do this," said Watson calmly.

"He does. He's trained for this," said Holmes, "He's worked day and night for months and years towards this moment. He's let it eat away at him until there is nothing left, no other thought, no other action, nothing more important in his life except the second when he pulls the trigger and takes his revenge," said Holmes as he took another step towards Arnold.

Watson looked at Sherlock, his expression flashing a warning to the great detective. What are you doing?

Sid weaved through traffic, ran a red light, and sped down a one way street the wrong way. Within five minutes she was approaching the junction with the street that ran along the back of the Ambassador Hotel. A uniformed police officer flagged her down, but before he could utter his well-used speech about the road being closed and giving alternative travel options, Sid had pulled down her window, held up a hand, and stopped the officer in his tracks.

"Get on your radio to Inspector Lestrade, tell him his chauffeur's here. Now!"

Less than three minutes later, Sid was parking her taxi behind the Land Rover where four heavily armed response officers were leaning, their semi-automatic weapons held protectively across their chests.

Sid reached across to the taxi's passenger side cubby hole, opened it and reached inside. When she withdrew her hand she was holding a decommissioned WWII Browning pistol. Sid slipped the weapon into the small of her back and got out of the taxi. Lestrade caught sight of Sid and the pair nodded at each other.

"Please help me. He's mad; he doesn't know what he's doing. It's not true what he says, it's not true," said Smolensky who had stopped snivelling and found his voice. Sensing that Watson might be his best advocate amongst the other men he turned towards him and pleaded his case.

"He's possibly misguided and definitely over emotional, but he's perfectly sane and entirely focussed, do be quiet," said Sherlock petulantly, addressing Smolensky but not deigning to look at him.

"Over emotional?!" said Davis with some passion, "this man killed my daughter!"

"No! No!" said Smolensky, staggering forward, "it was an accident!"

A booming shot rang out, and Smolensky fell to the floor.

Arnold stared at the fallen man and then took a faltering step backwards looking at the gun in his right hand. Holmes was right, the only thought in his mind at that very second, and every second since his daughter had been killed, had been to fire the gun in his hand at the person who had killed her. But he hadn't felt the gun kick in his hand, and the sound had been deafening, his gun wasn't that loud was it? Davis was confused. Had he shot Smolensky?

At the sound of the gun shot, the armed response team reflexively gripped their weapons, their ears strained for the signal to move in. Lestrade turned to look at the team and caught sight of Sid behind them, her right hand behind her back.

There was no cry for help from the car park, no second shot, and no further text message from Sherlock Holmes. Lestrade stepped towards the entrance to the car park, then stopped, turned to the armed response team and beckoned them forward.

"Hold at the entrance and wait for my signal to go in," ordered Lestrade.

The team leader nodded his acceptance of the order, and then led his men to vantage points at the top of the ramp leading down into the underground car park.

Smolensky groaned and rolled over on to his back, his arms spread out wide. Watson rushed over to the stricken man, his medical brain kicked in and he began to search for an entrance wound, a pulse, and a means by which to stop the flow of blood seeping across Smolensky's shirt.

"Call an ambulance!" the good doctor yelled out to no-one in particular.

Sherlock immediately knew from the sound of the gun shot, and the angle the shot came from, that the danger was to his right. Holmes slipped quickly between two cars behind him, and staying close to the wall opposite the basement door to the car park, he edged around behind the parked cars, and came upon Smolensky's car from the passenger side.

Smolensky's bodyguard, for it had been he who had fired the wild shot, was still heavily drugged and confused, but he had managed to stagger out of the passenger seat of the car, and was currently leaning against the car's wing. Having fired off one shot, he was engulfed by a wave of nausea, his vision blurred and his head swam. He reached out his left hand to steady himself against the car as he raised his right hand holding the gun. Within his sights were Davis and Watson, crouched over Smolensky's mortally wounded body.

On the street outside, Sid withdrew the hand that had immediately grabbed at the pistol nestled in the small of her back when the gun shot went off. She had been ready to follow Lestrade's armed response team into the car park if necessary.

This wouldn't be the first time that Sid has been prepared to risk danger in order to save Sherlock Holmes from harm. Their relationship had always been characterised by bad tempered exchanges, frustration, and on Sid's part seething resentment, but its complexity had forged a bond that was as deep as it was impossible to explain.

Sid walked around the front of her parked taxi and leant against the bonnet on the driver's side. She glanced up the street to the left. A police officer was guarding a defensive line of plastic tape stretched across the end of the street, keeping the public at bay. Sid looked at the small group of spectators, and then something caught her eye.

A woman, standing slightly apart from the group, was looking over at her, not at the police, the hotel, or the men with guns, but at her. Sid felt a tightening of her stomach muscles; an age old indication that there was trouble ahead. Sid was about to start walking towards the woman when another arresting noise emanated from the direction of the car park.

Sid's eyes flicked towards the car park entrance, and then back to the woman, who turned on her heel and calmly walked away.

Another booming shot rang out just as Sherlock launched himself at the back of the bodyguard. Watson threw himself prostrate over Smolensky, whilst Arnold crouched to the floor, his hands up near his head, still holding his gun. Holmes struggled briefly with the disorganised bulk of the bodyguard, but easily divested the confused and drug-addled man of his weapon before punching him, sending the large man sprawling to the floor where he remained, finally succumbing to a drugged sleep in less than twenty seconds.

As the second shot rang out, Lestrade stepped forward and stood beside the armed response senior officer. His men were positioned on each side at the top of the car park ramp, their eyes focussed on the darkened space beyond.

"Sherlock!" yelled Lestrade.

There was no response from the darkened car park below.

"Get ready you're going in," said Lestrade to the senior armed officer.

The armed team clicked their weapons out of safety mode, and steeled themselves to head down into danger.

"Hoist by his own petard," said Sherlock, slipping the bodyguard's gun in his left coat pocket as he stood beside Arnold. Both men looked down at the bloodied form of Smolensky. Watson pressed firmly on the wound site in the man's chest, but the effort seemed doomed to failure.

Davis gently held out his gun, butt end first, to Holmes, who took it and slipped it in his right coat pocket.

Arnold's expression was vacant, his body language deflated, the hate and the fury was draining from him just as quickly as Smolensky's ebbing life force was leaving his body.

"I know you want to know about her, but in fact there's little to tell and I can't say for sure if there's any truth in anything she told me about herself," said Davis to Holmes.

"Her name?" said Holmes quietly.

"She said to call her Adrestia," said Davis.

"She whom none can escape," muttered Holmes.

Davis shot a quizzical look at Holmes.

"The goddess of vengeance," said Sherlock.

Just as Lestrade was holding up his hand and about to send the armed response team down to the car park, a tall man in a Belstaff coat sauntered up the ramp and appeared at the entrance.

"Sherlock! What's going on down there?!" shouted Lestrade.

The great detective walked calmly and slowly, towards the Scotland Yard man. Holmes paused briefly in front of Lestrade, reached in to his coat pockets, extracted the two hand guns and gave them to Lestrade. Sherlock glanced up the street and caught sight of Sid leaning against her taxi several yards away.

"I'll give you the long story later at Baker Street Lestrade, but short story – Smolensky's been shot, go and arrest the bodyguard not Arnold, oh and Watson said could you call an ambulance although judging by the chest wound it's probably pointless."

Sherlock then walked up the street towards Sid, leaving Lestrade open mouthed.

"Not dead then?" said Sid mockingly as Sherlock passed her and reached out a hand to open the rear passenger door.

"Anywhere near Baker Street would be great," said Sherlock, as he climbed into the taxi, the door thumping soundly shut after him.

"Leaving everyone else to clear up the mess as usual," muttered Sid.

Later, much later, Sherlock Holmes had the rapt attention of Watson and Lestrade as he highlighted the salient points of the case that Mrs Hannah Croft had brought to Baker Street four days ago. Watson would refer to her as the Head Hunter's Client when he came to write up the case on his blog.

Watson sat in his comfy arm chair by the fire whilst Lestrade sat on one of the wooden chairs by the living room table. The Inspector had been forced to remove a pile of newspapers off of the chair and dump them on the table in order to find a vacant seat. The flat was a mess.

"This case presented one or two interesting diversions to begin with, but once it was obvious that the missing PA was safe and well in France, it stood to reason that Arnold, or Davis as we now know him, was connected in some way, and from then on it was just a simple matter of finding the link between them. It all became rather pedestrian after that. The only thing that elevates this case above the ordinary is the Facilitator and all her meticulous planning," said Sherlock sat in his leather armchair opposite Watson.

"I checked with my opposite number over in Paris, Sarah Beddington's due back on the lunchtime Eurostar tomorrow. We'll meet her, see what she has to say about this Facilitator," said Lestrade.

"A largely pointless exercise, she'll have very little information of any use," said Sherlock matter-of-factly.

"What made you think she was in Paris anyway?" said Lestrade slightly testily.

Sherlock opened his mouth but it was Watson who spoke.

"Her flat was full of French books, pictures, postcards. There was an I heart Paris magnet on the fridge. Lots of red, white, and blue everywhere."

"I still don't see –"started Lestrade.

"Of course you don't," said Sherlock, who leapt to his feet and began pacing the room as he talked.

"Sarah Beddington was the ideal unwitting accomplice because she was head hunted to be just that. She was a similar height and weight to the Facilitator who cherry picked her from the list of available staff at the recruitment firm – an ideal role to take if you're searching for a victim by the way. Miss Beddington was fully prepared for the interview at the legal firm because the Facilitator had inside information from Davis, who had been living a double life as Arnold their mild mannered Chief Accountant for the past couple of years."

"The Facilitator had started off the whole process by getting Davis installed at Carter &amp; Wright knowing that Smolensky was secretly using them as his legal representatives in the UK. If he had any intention of coming to the UK, his lawyer Johnathon Hatton would be informed. Davis needed to keep his cover so he couldn't start asking suspicious questions about the whereabouts of high value clients, so he tips off the Facilitator and she puts the Beddington plan into operation."

"Our careful planner had done her extensive homework on cat-loving Miss Croft and knew exactly the kind of person the head hunter would be looking for. Once Miss Beddington was in place, the Facilitator had a small window of opportunity in which to obtain the details of Smolensky's visit – the details kept secure in the expensive antique safe in Hatton's office at Carter &amp; Wright – a gift from Smolensky for all the help Hatton had provided in keeping him out of jail. Posing as the fake Sarah Beddington gave the Facilitator the access she needed."

Sherlock was enjoying telling his tale, gesticulating with his hands, and accenting certain words to drive the story along.

"It would have been a simple matter to entice Beddington with a short, and I imagine lucrative, job offer to her beloved Paris, to work for Davis. He'd have travelled on his own passport in his real name. She was Davis's alibi if by some miracle the police worked out that he was in fact Mr Arnold, the man that had killed Smolensky. There she is in Paris seeing Davis every day accompanying him to his meetings; typing up his notes, running his errands – I imagine he kept her very busy – she would be able to say it was impossible for him to be in London and Paris at the same time. But instead of disappearing into business meetings Davis was in fact using the time to fake a kidnapping and plan for the killing of Smolensky. And then he dies, on camera. No-one's going to suspect a dead man of the murder of a billionaire in a hotel car park in west London. Neat really," said Sherlock with a brief smirk.

"Once I had the link between Arnold and Beddington, it only took a few hours, a bit of digging on Carter &amp; Wright, one phone call to my brother, and I had Smolensky. Once I had Smolensky I had Davis and the reason for the all the planning; revenge. It was easy really, and a bit disappointing to be honest. Domestic issues invariably are."

Lestrade threw a glance at Watson at the mention of "domestic issues". Lestrade would never refer to the murder of someone's child so dismissively.

"It would all have worked out perfectly except for one tiny fly in the ointment – Mrs Croft who knew in her large gut that something was wrong but wasn't smart enough to work out why. Mrs Croft who spied on the fake Sarah Beddington and ended up bringing her suspicions to me, which I'm certain the Facilitator knew all about, and which resulted in her quitting Beddington's flat in something of a hurry; leaving me with obvious clues to follow."

Lestrade looked at Sherlock and then Watson for greater clarification of this last sentence. Sherlock looked at Watson and held out a hand beckoning him to provide the explanation. Watson searched his recollection of their visit to Beddington's flat in light of all that had occurred. A spark lit in his brain.

"The cat food, there was too much put out, and the bins, out too early you said."

"So…" said Sherlock.

"So, the fake Sarah Beddington wanted to give the neighbours the impression everything was normal, but knowing that you were going to turn up at Beddington's flat she needed to quickly disappear," said Watson.

"Exactly, on closer inspection there was a week's worth of clothes missing from the wardrobe, Beddington's passport was missing, but there was no sign of a struggle or a break in so wherever Sarah Beddington was she'd gone of her own accord. The Facilitator had even dusted and run the hoover round in an effort to hide any trace of her being in the flat."

Sherlock brought his palms together up near his face, his eyes searching the room and yet Watson could tell their vision was introverted, not taking in the flat's dishevelment.

"My guess is the Facilitator contrived some sleight of hand at St Pancras station so that Sarah Beddington's purse and phone were conveniently mislaid – after all the fake Sarah would need these. But not to worry says the Facilitator, you go to Paris, I'll take care of everything – transport, hotel, contacting the phone company, cancelling the supposedly mislaid credit cards, everything will be paid for – she even offered to feed the cat. It worked perfectly. Well, until I got involved."

"So who is this woman, this Facilitator? How do we track her down?" said Lestrade.

"What for?" said Sherlock, who had stopped pacing, with his hands clasped in their thinking pose to stare down at Lestrade.

"What for?! Organising a fake kidnapping, operating under false pretences and false names, and generally wasting police time that's what for," said Lestrade.

"You'll never find her, so what's the point in wasting more of your time? Really Inspector, concentrate on the things you can control, like the traffic," said Sherlock dismissively as walked over to the living room table and started rifling through the pile of newspapers.

Lestrade looked over at Watson, who gave him a sympathetic look. The Inspector stood up and walked over to the open doorway of the living room, where he turned and addressed Sherlock's back.

"Pointless or not I've a job to do. I'll question Sarah Beddington and Michael Davis about this Facilitator and get an alert put out on her. I'm not sure I've got time to sort out the traffic what with all the fake kidnappers and would-be murderers running around," said Lestrade sarcastically.

"John," said Lestrade curtly, by way of a goodbye.

"Greg," replied Watson.

The Inspector then thumped down the wooden stairs and slammed the door on his way out of the building.

With Lestrade now gone, Watson could raise a point with Sherlock that had been bothering him for a few hours. Watson took a sip of his tea.

"Speaking of pointless jobs, thanks for getting me to read all those police reports on Arnold, which you then didn't ask me about," said John.

"It wasn't pointless. There was every chance the Facilitator was following us, I needed a useful diversion, to make her think we were still taking an active interest in the kidnapping scenario," said Sherlock distractedly.

John's lips strained tight under the effort to contain his frustration with Sherlock. Watson stood up, took his empty mug in to the kitchen, and then he returned to his comfy armchair.

"You could have warned him," said Watson.

"Mmm," Sherlock's mind was elsewhere as he scanned one of a pile of newspapers before him on the living room table.

"Smolensky. You figured out Davis was after him hours ago, you could have tipped him off so he could have got away."

"A small oversight on a busy day," said Sherlock in a dismissive tone.

"No, it wasn't," said Watson slowly, with some gravity. "You deliberately didn't warn Smolensky because you wanted to lure this Facilitator woman out into the open. One phone call from you and Smolensky wouldn't be dead right now."

"I'm not in the habit of saving murderers," said Holmes coolly.

"Oh so _you're_ the avenging angel now are you?" said Watson sarcastically.

The sound of the doorbell cut short any further debate on the subject.

Sid Johnson took the stairs up to Sherlock's flat two at a time. When she reached the open doorway to the living room she slipped a hand into the inside pocket of her black belted jacket and pulled out a small white envelope.

"I didn't expect you to have it so soon," said Holmes holding out a hand for the envelope without taking his eyes off of his perusal of his paper.

Sid ignored Sherlock and walked over to Watson, who was standing by his comfy armchair slipping into his waxen jacket. Sid saw the patches of blood on Watson's shirt cuffs, the result of his futile efforts to keep Smolensky alive.

"You OK?" said Sid, her warm dark eyes searching John's face.

Sherlock harrumphed and folded his paper dramatically, tossing it on to the living room table as he stood up.

"He's fine," Holmes said dismissively.

"I'll let him tell me that thanks," said Sid, not bothering to turn to look at Sherlock.

The great detective drew himself up straight, noisily drew in a breath, and marched down the corridor and into his bedroom.

"I'm OK. Thanks. What's that?" said Watson motioning to the envelope in Sid's hands.

"Another move in the long running chess game we call _being a Holmes brother_," said Sid, rolling her eyes. Watson smiled thinly.

Sherlock re-emerged from his bedroom, wearing his second best dressing gown. He walked slowly to his leather armchair and sank into it, his peeved expression replaced by a more pensive one.

Both Sid and Watson noticed the change, communicating their joint understanding in a shared look.

"What's up?" said Watson.

"Thinking," said Sherlock.

"Well that could last anywhere from five minutes to three days, and I'm on a schedule, so I'll leave this with you," said Sid holding out the envelope to Holmes," and we can discuss what it's worth to you some other time."

Sherlock made no move to take the envelope from Sid's hand. She pursed her lips, gave a small nod and then stepped over to the mantelpiece, where she dropped the envelope. Sid turned, extending out a hand to Watson, who took it.

"Pleasure," said Sid.

"Likewise," said Watson.

Sid walked towards the open doorway of the living room. She knew Holmes of old, consumed by his own thoughts and ignorant of the niceties, he wouldn't acknowledge the help she had provided, or even the fact she was leaving. Watson looked at Holmes, and sighed as Sid disappeared down the stairs towards the front door.

"Right well I'll be off. You OK?" said Watson.

"Mmmm," hummed Holmes distractedly as he reached into his dressing gown pocket for his mobile phone.

Watson looked around at the mess of the flat, and then back at Holmes. It was as pointless asking Sherlock to tidy up, take some rest, be nice to people, as it would be for Watson to tell Sherlock how much he was looking forward to seeing his wife and child. The parameters of Sherlock Holmes's life wouldn't give any credence or importance to such trivialities.

Receiving no further response from Holmes, John made his way downstairs. As Watson closed the street door of 221B Baker Street behind him, he was greeted by the sight of Sid leaning against the passenger wing of her taxi.

"Wondered if you wanted a lift home," she said brightly.

"Yeah, that would be great. Thanks," said Watson.

The mobile phone in Sid's hand sounded a text alert, she accessed the message and frowned at the screen. Sid held the phone up to Watson.

"Wonders will never cease. Sherlock says 'Thank You'," said Sid, "You're having a good influence on him."

"He's still Sherlock," said John.

"True. Hop in," said Sid.

In the living room of 221B Baker Street, Sherlock gently slipped his mobile phone back into the pocket of his dressing gown and as he withdrew his hand it was holding a sheet of writing paper folded in half.

Sherlock had found this paper on his pillow when he'd walked into his bedroom in high dudgeon with Sid not five minutes previously. It was this paper, or more specifically what was written upon it, that had turned his petulance in to pensiveness.

Sherlock opened the sheet out again, his eyes reading the message written upon it, in a woman's right hand:

"If you need to know more – 51° 30' 59.886''N, 0° 6' 7.8516''W"

Sherlock raised himself from his armchair. He walked past the living room table, depositing the paper on it, and continued on to stand before the large sash window nearest the leather sofa. Holmes looked down on Baker Street below.

The snow and ice had all gone; London had finally thrown off its winter cloak. Sherlock looked down on a small group of raucous Saturday night party goers walking by on the opposite pavement, who almost collided with a man walking his dog. A black cab, its bright orange hire sign on, drove down the street in the direction of the West End, hunting for fares.

Sherlock Holmes slipped his hand into his dressing gown pocket, pulled out his mobile phone, and tapped in the co-ordinates from the sheet of paper.

"I always need to know more," he murmured.

**The End**

90


End file.
